Deadly Intent
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #40 In this seven part novelette, it has been two years since the Donari mission. Now a landing party mishap becomes the basis for a court-martial, and Spock faces imprisonment at the notorious Luna Penitentiary.
1. Twist of Fate

**1: Twist of Fate**

With each step the air grew noticeably warmer. Intrigued, Captain Kirk followed on Spock's heels through the thickening vegetation, and came to a rocky ledge overlooking a pond. Curls of vapor rose from the clear blue water. Its moist scent mingled with the fragrance of blooming flowers.

Unfastening his heavy coat, he exclaimed, "Spock, you were right! I've never seen anything quite like this—paradise in the midst of a barren, icy hell."

Unmoved by the fanciful words, Spock consulted his tricorder and said, "I always attempt to provide you with accurate information. This pool is fed by a volcanic hot spring that originates deep underground. The conditions of this microclimate have given rise to an unusually large number of species for a habitat of such limited size."

Kirk drew in a deep lungful of the sweet air. It seemed like old times with Spock at his side, sharing the unknowns of a recently discovered planet.

"Are you glad you came?" he asked his friend.

Spock glanced up from his tricorder. "The Astrophysics Conference on Memory Alpha was quite interesting."

Kirk gestured at the alien beauty all around them. "And this?"

The Vulcan's slanted eyebrow rose slightly as he took in Kirk's meaning. "Yes," he conceded in a less formal tone. "I'm glad our schedules afforded me this opportunity to join you for a time."

Sounds from other members of the landing party filtered through the dense growth. Kirk lowered his voice. "I hope it didn't cause any trouble with your wife. Lauren probably looks forward to summer recess at the academy."

Spock studied his tricorder readings. "Just now she is quite deeply involved in a research project at SMC—do be careful here, Jim. These surroundings may not be as harmless as they appear."

Kirk waved off the warning. "How have I managed to survive all these years without you? No need to hover, Spock. I know you're dying to study every inch of this place."

Spock looked as if he were about to object, but then he nodded and wandered off.

Kirk was alone in paradise. Smiling to himself, he switched on his pocket bio-reader and made a slow, precautionary sweep of the area. Benign plant life and small biological life forms. He heard a twittering sound and discovered a tiny birdlike creature hiding amid the branches of a shrub. Closer examination turned up more of the yellow hoppers. Deep in the bush, he spied an interesting object. Kirk threaded his bio-reader between the branches and swiped the furry brown pod for toxins. _Negative._

He carefully plucked it. The pod filled the palm of his hand. Curious, he gave it an experimental poke with his index finger. Seed? Fruit? Egg? Raising the pod to his nose, he sniffed its faint woody odor.

With a sharp crack, its hull burst open.

Startled, he dropped it and backed away. The pod hit the mossy ground and exploded into growth. Tendrils snaked out and rapidly burrowed into the soil. Stems and tender leaves unfolded.

Kirk tapped his com badge. "Spock!"

"Yes, Captain," came the immediate reply.

"Come here and see this," Kirk said. "Hurry!"

Heart pounding, he stooped down for a closer look. As he watched, waxy buds appeared, their petals opening into delicate white bells. The growth began to pulsate and hum with curiously pleasant emanations. Mesmerized, he reached toward the dancing blossoms.

He heard footsteps approaching and glanced over his shoulder. "Here, Spock! Take a look!"

He saw Spock's eyes widen as they took in the scene. Then all hell broke loose.

It was one of those occasions when even a Vulcan's reflexes were not quick enough to prevent disaster. From a distance of several meters, Spock saw Kirk's hand extended toward the waving flowers. He had only just observed a similar phenomenon in the woods and was monitoring a rapid rise in toxin levels when the captain sent for him.

"Jim—!" He shouted. But there was no time for explanations.

Spock ran forward and launched himself at the captain. He was tackling Kirk when the flower's center discharged—as he had feared—explosively. A milky substance spewed over their faces. Then a second flower burst.

As they hit the ground, Kirk grunted with pain and surprise. For an instant Spock lay holding him, his mind attuned to his own physical reactions, yet all too aware of Kirk's anger. He could detect no harmful effects from the sap-like shower. Had he misjudged the situation? Had he overreacted?

 _"_ _God…damn it!"_ Kirk swore, and tried to push Spock's hands away. The feeble attempt failed.

A third blossom exploded.

Spock felt Kirk begin to spasm, and thought of the pond. There were now signs that his own body was adversely affected. Holding Kirk tightly, he rolled them both into the steaming water and scrubbed at the sticky plant residue on the captain's face. Kirk convulsed one last time and went still.

Spock's arms trembled from the effort to hold Kirk's head above water. Though his mind felt sluggish, he knew what had to be done. Carefully shifting Kirk to his right arm, he tried to reach for his combadge. The twitching fingers were moving toward it when the captain's body slipped from his failing grip and sank into the water.

Death was closing in on them. With one last effort, Spock tapped the combadge. Drawing a shuddering breath, he threw all his remaining strength into speaking a single command. _Beam us up,_ he thought, but it came out a garbled stutter. Then the paralysis crept into his diaphragm and he slid below the pond's surface.

oooo

For a long time there was only night.

Gradually the dark interval of silence gave way to the sounds of dawn—random noises…voices…music.

A violin? The sweet, mellow tones drew Spock's attention and he struggled toward them. But when he brushed the surface of consciousness, the music was no longer there. He could not seem to raise his eyelids. Exhausted by his efforts, he drifted back into the darkness.

oooo

Spock found himself submerged in deep, murky waters. Somewhere high above him, a glimmer of light sparkled. Or did he only imagine it? His lungs bursting for air, he swam upward and upward until at last he broke the surface.

Gasping, he opened his eyes wide and looked around. The light was gone. In its place was complete blackness.

Someone called out his name. "Spock! Spock, I'm here…"

He looked around, but there was nothing to see.

"Spock…"

Something wet dripped onto his face and it seemed as if he was sinking back into the water. Panicking, he fought to breathe.

"Sedate him," a voice said.

oooo

"I know you can hear me," a woman spoke nearby.

Spock sensed that he should know her, and that her message was meant for him.

"You're off life-support, back on your own. You're making tremendous progress. Spock, aisha, open your eyes. Try it, you can see now. Your optic nerves are healed."

At her urging, he raised his eyelids. Dazzling light danced all around him, and he had to squint. Something moved in his line of vision. Blinking, he attempted to focus. He saw a woman standing over him. Tears glistened in her blue eyes. Bending near, she gently touched his face. For a moment he almost thought he knew her name, but the tantalizing word-image faded.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked, stroking his hair.

 _Yes,_ he thought. And then again, _no._ He knew her as well as he knew himself, yet he did not know her at all.

"Can you speak?" she asked softly.

He tried. He wanted to say, _I can._ And though he was certain that sounds came out, he was equally certain they were not the correct sounds.

He tried again.

The woman's smile faded away. Her face went white and stiff with a distress that he could somehow feel inside himself.

Frightened, he asked, _What is wrong with me?_ Slowly, carefully, his mind formed the thought, but his tongue spoke a strange language all its own. The frustrating paradox tired him, and before long his eyes closed.

oooo

An announcement over an intercom awakened Spock and he found himself lying flat in a bed. For a moment he just studied his surroundings. It was a hospital room, and a fair-haired woman stood at a window with her back to him.

Clearing his throat, Spock said, "Excuse me…"

The woman whirled around and faced him. Breaking into a delighted grin, his wife cried out wordlessly.

"Lauren," he said, wondering why he had not recognized her at once.

Tears spilled from her eyes. "You can speak!"

The remark seemed nonsensical. "Of course I can speak. Where am I?"

Wiping at her face, she came over to the bed. "You're at Starfleet Medical Center. Can you tell me what year it is?"

"Don't you know?" But apparently she had some concern regarding his mental state, so he proceeded to tell her the year in both Earth and Vulcan calendar.

At that she bombarded him with more foolish questions, all of which he answered easily. "There is nothing the matter with my mind," he insisted, "and as for my body…"

Pushing back the covers, he attempted to rise and found to his consternation that his arms lacked strength, and he could not move his legs at all. As he stared at the uncooperative limbs, he realized for the first time that he had no sensation from the waist down.

Lauren sat beside him and put her hand on his arm. "Lie back," she urged.

He complied. Such was his weakness that he had no choice but to comply.

"You're getting better every day," she said, then hesitated.

Spock searched his mind—then her face—for the answers he could not find within himself. "Lauren…what has happened to me?"

"You beamed down from the Enterprise with Jim. There was an accident…"

He tried to recall. _He was leaving Lauren and the children…travelling aboard a starliner to an astrophysics conference on Memory Alpha._ "Jim rendezvoused and I went aboard the Enterprise. We visited a planet that had only recently been discovered in that quadrant. I beamed down with one of the landing parties…"

"Do you remember what happened next?"

Strange, dreamlike images rose up. Spock frowned and shook his head. "The conditions were extremely cold and arid, but I can recall nothing beyond that."

"There was an oasis." Lauren took his hand and gripped it tightly.

Closing his eyes, he worked to recover the lost memories. There was lush green vegetation. White, waxy blossoms. He smelled moisture and pollens. He heard water. He _felt_ water. "Jim. He was in danger…"

"You were both in danger—covered in some sort of sticky biological toxin."

Spock's mind returned to the flowers. "I was studying a most peculiar plant when the captain summoned me. Perhaps he encountered something similar."

"They beamed you both out of a pond."

 _Pond water._ "We must have tried to wash away the toxin. I am unsure…" He seemed to feel Jim slipping out of his arms and it was such a terrible sensation that he opened his eyes again. "The captain. Did he…drown?"

"No." Lauren gave his hand a squeeze. "Jim is alive—just coming along more slowly. If you hadn't gotten into that pond, you'd both be dead now. The toxin contained a lethal nerve poison. They've been treating you with everything on the market, but the damage was so extensive…we…we weren't sure you'd even make it. That Vulcan stamina of yours astonished everyone. At your rate of recovery, you'll be walking out of here in a week."

Spock regarded her with skepticism. "Walking?"

"Yes," she promised, "walking."

He looked down at his toes and concentrated on moving them, but it was as if they belonged to someone else. Tiring, he gave up the effort.

"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been since the accident?"

"Twelve days." Leaning down, Lauren embraced him as if it had been forever.

oooo

Doctor M'Benga pulled back the blankets, exposing Spock's pajama-clad legs. As Spock watched, M'Benga applied a neuro-probe to different areas of his feet, systematically monitoring the damaged nerve pathways. A foot twitched in the doctor's hand and he glanced up.

"You felt that?"

"Yes." Spock was certain that he had detected a vague tickle. "Occasionally now, there is a slight tingling sensation."

"Excellent." M'Benga replaced the covers and smiled down at Spock, his teeth very white against his dark African skin. "I wish all my patients healed so easily. Maybe that's why I've always enjoyed treating Vulcans."

Spock felt equally comfortable with M'Benga. The doctor had been on McCoy's medical staff when Spock first came aboard the Enterprise. Although the years had tinged M'Benga's hair with gray, he seemed little changed. His calm, soft-spoken manner made him well-suited to work among Vulcans.

M'Benga extended his hand to Spock. "Here, let me feel your grip."

Spock grasped and squeezed the human's hand with all his strength. At one time such an effort could have crushed M'Benga's bones. Now, the doctor merely smiled.

"Not bad," he said, pausing to make a notation on his Padd.

"Doctor…" Spock waited until he had M'Benga's full attention. "If I may ask—what is the prognosis for Captain Kirk?"

The doctor's smile faded. "It's a pity he doesn't have a few of your Vulcan genes…but he's holding on, and even gaining a little ground here and there. Have you been to see him?"

Spock nodded. Only this morning he had hoisted himself into the grav-chair beside his bed and gone looking for his comatose friend. It was the first time he had left the room under his own power and it had felt good, despite an illogical sense of embarrassment over his disability.

M'Benga sighed. "I'm afraid no one can predict the outcome of Kirk's case. He received more of the toxin than you did, and he isn't responding nearly as well to treatment. But he _is_ responding, and that's a hopeful sign. Right now the primary goal is to wean him off life support."

After the doctor left, Spock closed his eyes, shutting out the soft yellow light of afternoon, dwelling alone with his thoughts. _What a senseless accident._ Day by day his memory of the beam-down grew sharper as he reviewed every fateful detail. Kirk's second-in-command, Suba Vladis, had rightfully objected to the captain exposing himself to the potential dangers of an unexplored environment. Predictably, Kirk had gone anyway. At that point, the newest away team standards dictated that no member of the party should be left alone—yet there had always been that unwritten qualifier called "captain's discretion". For that reason, and also because Spock was not a member of Kirk's crew, he had not voiced an objection when Jim encouraged him to set off on his own. And Spock had known exactly how the captain would react to such an objection. _Spock, I didn't bring you along to be my nursemaid…_

Had Spock been a member of the crew, he would have kept the captain in sight. But because he was a guest he had acted differently—one might even say… _irresponsibly._

Spock felt himself sinking into a mire of guilt and turned instead to logic. He had always had a tendency to overanalyze, but there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on past events unless they had some useful bearing on the present. For the sake of his family he must try and leave the past behind. He must center all his energy on making a full physical recovery.

oooo

Lauren's optimistic prediction had proved wrong. Spock had not walked out of the hospital in a week, but at least he had progressed to the next level of recovery, called "assisted walking". With the aid of medical appliances, he pushed himself to his feet so often and for such lengthy periods that he had been ordered to bed for the remainder of the afternoon. To guarantee his inactivity, M'Benga had called for a neuro-stimulator treatment. Now Spock had no choice but to lie still.

This seemed to amuse Lauren, who had brought Simon along for a visit. Stifling a smile, she left the boy in Spock's keeping and headed off to the research department. Simon scooted close to Spock on the bed and stared curiously at the humming module clamped over his father's legs.

"Does it hurt?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"The neuro-stimulator is painless," Spock assured him, "although it does sometimes generate odd sensations." He much preferred it over physical therapy, which could be most unpleasant. "Pain," he cautiously disclosed, "is a matter of the mind. There are Vulcan techniques which can effectively control it." He would never have said it in Lauren's presence; she so wanted the boy to be raised fully human. But despite appearances, Simon was _not_ fully human.

Now his young face grew wistful. "I wish I were Vulcan."

Spock studied his eldest son. Simon was a handsome boy of nine, with dark wavy hair and brilliant blue eyes. A musically gifted child, he had been playing his violin in concerts and competitions for several years, and had also received acclaim for his original compositions. So great was his talent, that his instructor was having difficulty holding him back, keeping something of Simon's potential in reserve so he did not peak too early in life. Yet Simon was not satisfied with himself—a sadly discontented state that Spock remembered all too well from his own childhood.

He said, "You must learn to accept and appreciate yourself as you are. It's a fine thing to be fully of one species like your mother, but it is also fine to have a mixed heritage like myself and your brother James and your sisters. There is so much of the human and the Vulcan that you can explore. If you wish, I can help you develop more of your Vulcan qualities."

"But Mom…"

"Yes, but we might explain that it is necessary for your happiness. That is very important to her."

Simon's expression brightened.

Encouraged, Spock continued. "There is more to being Vulcan than pointed ears. James has them, but he is not a touch telepath like you. At an early age I taught you the basics of mental shielding, and there are other beneficial disciplines that would still leave you free to expression your emotions."

Dinner time was nearing when Lauren returned with a technician who took down the neuro-stimulator and wheeled it out the door.

Simon jumped to his feet, eyes glowing. "Can we see Uncle Jim now?"

Lauren cast Spock an anxious glance, but her words were for Simon. "Honey, Jim's awfully sick. He won't even know you're there."

"That's not true," Simon countered. "Sometimes people in comas can hear things. Father remembers me playing the violin for him." He swung around, his manner urging Spock to come to his assistance. "Didn't you?"

"Yes," Spock said, "I do remember. I believe your mother is concerned that seeing Jim will upset you."

"But I saw _you_ in a coma," the boy argued.

Lauren spoke up. "And it hit you pretty hard, didn't it?"

"That's different," Simon insisted. "He's my father." Clearly frustrated, he appealed once more to Spock. _"Please?"_

A few minutes later they were heading down the corridor together. Even with neuro-assist bands, Spock had to lean heavily on a walker. Each step took a determined effort. He was not used to moving so laboriously, but he could hardly be impatient with himself when his family was so uncomplaining.

They arrived at Kirk's room. The captain lay silent and pale in the gentle glow of the life support unit. His chest rose and fell with programmed regularity; he could not even breathe for himself.

Spock found it difficult to think that Kirk might remain in this helpless state for the rest of his life. He had considered using a meld to try and reach his friend's subconscious mind, but decided against it. The captain had always taken such pleasure in physical activity. If Kirk was unaware of his present state, it seemed best to leave things as they were.

Simon left Spock's side and edged closer to the bed. "Uncle Jim," he called softly, as if he thought Kirk might wake up. But the captain slept on.

The boy extended his hand toward Kirk's arm.

"Simon," warned Spock, but with a will of his own the child reached out and touched his beloved "uncle".

Spock saw the meld-concentration entering Simon's eyes and said, "No! Lauren, stop him."

But it was already too late. His telepathic son reacted with shock to the eerie absence of surface consciousness, the frightening void where there had once been such vitality and warmth. Lauren pulled the boy clear, and for an instant Spock thought he might turn on his mother with anger. Tears came instead, and he buried his face against her.

As Lauren's eyes settled accusingly on Spock, he said, "Life's lessons are sometimes painful." It was not always possible—or even desirable—to shield their children from difficult experiences.

oooo

Home was no longer the peaceful retreat it had once been, but Spock welcomed the healthy commotion created by his growing family. There had been times when it seemed he would never be released from the hospital, but now the frustration and tedium of those days were only a memory. Yet he was not completely cured. The brain had amazing regenerative powers, but many of the peripheral nerve pathways—particularly those in his legs—were too severely damaged to ever recover fully. Despite a continuing regimen of therapy and medication, he would always experience a certain degree of pain and walk with a limp that became more pronounced as he tired.

Of course, none of that mattered here. His youngest offspring accorded him the same disrespect as when he was able-bodied. Perhaps it was because there were a pair of them. At two-and-a-half years of age, Teresa and James were already "putting their heads together" in babyish efforts to outwit and outmaneuver him. It was no secret that Teresa was the leader. She possessed a scheming mind and a body both larger and stronger than her twin's, so it was only natural that James follow her into temptation.

This morning Spock was on his own with the twins. A new babysitter had called in sick, and Lauren was busy with her research at SMC. Their mother was scarcely out of the house when the youngsters discovered a way to slip past the "child-proof" barrier at the foot of the staircase. They scrambled up into the forbidden regions, knowing full well that Spock could not take the stairs as quickly as Lauren or Simon. The second time they did this, Spock was not inclined to be so forgiving. He delivered a stern lecture as he herded James downstairs, cane gripped under one arm, while keeping a tight hold on Teresa and the banister.

Blatantly unrepentant, Teresa broke free the instant he set her down, and snatched his cane. Running away with it, she shrieked delightedly, her blonde curls bobbing.

For once little James hesitated to follow her. Gazing up solemnly at Spock, he pulled a wet, wrinkled thumb from his mouth and said, "Weesa's bad."

Spock looked at his frail, Vulcan-faced son and picked him up. James' expressive brown eyes appeared somewhat sallow, as did his skin. Yet he seemed to be doing well enough with his present liver function. Not for the first time Spock wondered what James would have been like if he were blessed with normal health like his active sister—but such speculations were pointless. The painful reality of Vash-Lester meant that James would likely die before reaching adolescence. For James, these early years were all the more precious because they were probably all the boy would ever have.

Spock gently touched his son's face—so like the pictures of himself at that age—and brushed the straight, glossy brown hair off James' Vulcan ears. The boy reached out with a hand sticky from play, briefly captured Spock's pointed ear tip, and broke into a tender smile.

Spock felt his mouth curve in response.

"Daaa-dy," called a second little voice.

Turning, Spock found Teresa's impish face peeking at him from the kitchen doorway.

"Weesa's a bad girl," James scolded, waving a little finger at her.

"Your sister is not bad," Spock told him. "She is merely full of mischief. Would you care to join her?"

James wiggled to be put down.

"Then run," Spock said, "run and play."

As soon as James' feet touched the floor, he scampered after Teresa. The sound of their laughter filled the house.

oooo

Spock's medical leave ended tomorrow. Although he had enjoyed spending the past weeks with his family, he was looking forward to resuming his duties as commandant of Starfleet Academy. In mid-afternoon he passed his physical, then left the outpatient area of the hospital to visit his comatose friend. It had been three days since he last saw the captain. At that time Kirk had finally begun breathing on his own. Other autonomic functions also showed signs of reviving, and there was a new sense of optimism among the medical staff. If Kirk rose to consciousness, Spock hoped it would be a gradual process, granting the captain time to absorb the harsh reality of his condition with a minimum of shock.

Although Spock's limp was still quite evident, he no longer needed a cane as he walked the corridors. He slowed as Kirk's room came into view. An armed security officer stood at attention beside the door. The young man met Spock's eyes and immediately moved to block the entrance.

Perplexed, Spock came to a halt before him and asked, "Is this not Captain Kirk's room?"

The guard's watchful gaze held him. "I'm sorry, sir, but that information is not available."

Once, long again, Spock had heard Kirk use a curious human expression: _Alarm bells went off in my head._ Now Spock knew precisely what he had meant. Why had a guard been posted? By whose authority? If Jim's condition had somehow become a matter of security, why hadn't he been moved to the Security Section?

Gathering himself, he said, "I am Captain Spock, Commandant of Starfleet Academy. I have come to see Captain Kirk."

The sentry remained as he was. "I'm sorry, sir, but I must ask you to move on."

Spock stood his ground as he considered the options available to him. He decided to inquire at the nurse's station and was starting to turn away when Kirk's door opened unexpectedly. The guard moved aside, allowing someone to exit.

Spock beheld the blonde-haired woman with surprise. "Doctor Marcus."

It had been years since he had seen the mother of Kirk's son; he was not aware that the captain had maintained any contact with Carol Marcus since David's death.

Carol gave him a warm smile of recognition. "Spock. I heard you were involved in the same accident with Jim. How are you?"

"I am doing fine, thank you," Spock answered, then hesitated. "If I might ask—how did you convince the guard to let you inside?"

Carol gave him a strange look and shrugged. "Well, I just opened the door and went in."

Spock raised an eyebrow. They spoke a moment longer and when Spock learned that Kirk's condition was unchanged, he decided to leave. But the matter preyed on his mind all the way home. Weather-wise, it was an unusual day for San Francisco. Unseasonably warm and humid, with a restless sky that hinted of an impending electric storm.

"Earthquake weather," Lauren called it when he reached the house.

Spock sensed her uneasiness and decided to delay telling her about his odd experience outside Jim's hospital room.

Lauren folded her arms and gazed anxiously out the living room window. "I wish Simon were home," she said softly.

In the downstairs nursery, one of the napping twins—James, by the sound of it—called out briefly in his sleep, then went silent.

Spock studied his wife. "Are you having one of your premonitions?"

"I don't know," she whispered with her eyes still on the window. "Maybe it's just the weather." Turning, she looked over at him with a worried expression he had come to know well. At one time he had found these sudden, fearful moods baffling in a woman who was usually so level-headed, but he had since learned to take her intuitions seriously.

He asked, "What time do you expect Simon home?"

"Not until dinner. There's a concert rehearsal at the performance hall."

"Is James well?"

She nodded.

Spock drew near and let his fingers drift down her temple and cheek. Her eyelids closed. Her mind relaxed a little and yielded closer to his.

"Mm, that feels good," she said. "Hold me."

As he took her into his arms, the doorchime rang.

Lauren sighed and opened her eyes.

"Perhaps," Spock said, "they will go away."

The doorchime rang twice more, insistently. In the nursery James made a wakeful sound and began to cough.

Spock left Lauren and went to the door. Three Starfleet security officers stood on his front porch. Their presence abruptly reminded him of the guard outside Kirk's hospital room.

"Captain Spock?" asked the ranking lieutenant.

"I am Spock," he acknowledged.

The young officer drew back his shoulders. "Sir…I regret to inform you that I have a warrant for your arrest."

Spock was stunned into momentary silence. Then he said, "I beg your pardon?"

Lauren moved in beside him. "Spock, what's going on? What is this?"

Spock's eyes remained fixed on the lieutenant. "It seems that these officers have come to arrest me." He heard Lauren suck in her breath and he said, "Lieutenant, I will see the warrant."

The officer produced a printout which Spock and Lauren read together. The document had been issued by the Chief of Base Security. It accused Spock of attempting to murder Captain James T. Kirk.

"Why, this is ridiculous!" Lauren exclaimed as she confronted the arresting officers.

Ignoring her, the lieutenant detached a pair of energy cuffs from his belt. Spock felt a tug on his pant leg and glanced downward. Teresa and James stood beside him, sleepy-eyed and rumpled from their nap.

"Ma'am," said the lieutenant, "you may want to take the youngsters indoors…"

Lauren's face flushed with anger. "There's no need for cuffs, and you know it!"

Spock touched her arm. "It is alright. Obviously there has been some error, but I will return with them to the base and rectify it. Please do as he says."

Lauren wavered for a long moment, then gave a reluctant nod. She urged the children into the house and shut the door.

Spock was alone with the officers. Handing back the warrant, he extended his arms outward to receive the cuffs. The lieutenant signaled one of his companions, who produced a phaser aimed squarely at Spock's chest.

"Turn around," the lieutenant ordered. "Put your hands behind your head and spread your legs."

Spock raised an eyebrow, but complied. Lauren came back on the porch while they were sweeping him for weapons. She watched in outrage as they drew back his arms and locked his wrists into the energy cuffs.

"You have a right to remain silent," recited the lieutenant as he turned Spock around, "but your silence may be seen in court as an admission of guilt. You have a right to seek counsel…" The age-old words flowed over Spock, as familiar as a scene in an entertainment video, and just as irrelevant.

"I have nothing to hide," he declared when the recital was over. "I assure you, I have committed no crime."

As they began to lead him away, he said to Lauren, "It's a mistake. They will see that."

But the storm in his wife's eyes would not be calmed.

oooo

It was an uneasy ride across town to the Starbase Detention Center. Lightning streaked from the clouds as Spock was taken from the car and led indoors. With his arms secured behind him, he had some difficulty maintaining his balance, but as soon as the guards realized it, they slowed their pace.

They arrived at the processing room. A pair of drunken looking enlisted men were shunted off to make way for him. Still in cuffs, Spock submitted to a retina scan, DNA scan, and holographic imaging before heading down a hallway to Interrogation. In the Spartan, windowless room he was finally relieved of his cuffs and seated across the table from two high-ranking human officers. A ceiling-mounted recorder activated.

"Alright now," the elder man said brusquely, "let's get down to business. No use wasting everyone's time. You might as well just get it over and tell us what happened."

"Happened?" Spock searched the officer's stern features. "Where am I supposed to have committed the crime?"

"Alpha Quadrant. Does that stir your memory? The oasis? The poison?"

Stunned, Spock sat back in his chair. "Sir, I assure you, I am not in the habit of murdering people, and if I were, I would not choose Captain Kirk. He is my friend. I tried to save him."

 _"_ _Save_ him?" The officer's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Oh, come on. I'll tell you right up front, Captain—it won't do you any good to bullshit us. We have witnesses. We have evidence that even a Vulcan wouldn't dispute. Believe me, we looked long and hard into this one before we decided to bring you in. Now I suggest you save us all a lot of trouble and just tell the truth. We know you did it, and we know why."

Spock's mind wrestled with the officer's words. _Witnesses? Evidence?_ The situation was far graver than he had realized. Surrendering to the inevitable, he said, "I will answer no further questions until I consult an attorney."


	2. Court-Martial

**2: Court-Martial**

Spock's eyes sought out Lauren as he entered the legal chamber for his arraignment hearing. She looked as if she had not slept since his arrest. For that matter, neither had he, but his Vulcan body was better equipped to handle such stresses. And there were bound to be a good many stresses yet to come.

Events were moving fast. It did not matter that the charge against him was preposterous, not when there was computer-clad evidence to back it up. Two members of the landing party, supposed witnesses to a crime Spock did not commit, with verifier and memory scans clearly implicating him.

Spock tugged at his uniform jacket and took a seat beside the JAG officer he had chosen for his counsel. There was no doubt that his case would be bound over for court-martial. He only hoped that the judge would allow him his freedom until the trial's completion.

As the presiding officer entered the chamber, Spock briefly rose with the others. Then the hearing began.

Prosecution brought forth the damning computer evidence against him. For the first time Spock heard the suggestion of a motive, as tall stately Benita Alsop looked his way and said, "It has been brought to my attention that over the passage of years Kirk had developed a sexual interest in Captain Spock's young daughter. That, in fact, it had become a private source of much friction between the two officers."

There was no stopping the indignant flush that rose up from Spock's collar. "Inaccurate," he said to the counselor seated beside him.

Commander Ian Carmichael leaned forward and addressed Alsop. "Very interesting. I suppose that you have some sort of documentation?"

Alsop handed over a deposition and gave another copy to the court. There was little time to peruse it as the judge accepted the document into evidence.

Carmichael went on to introduce his own well-supported facts. Among them were Spock's Starfleet service record, forty-two separate endorsements of his character, and Spock's verifier and memory scans—both of which contradicted the prosecutor's evidence.

Alsop addressed the bench. "Sir, I must point out that Captain Spock is half Vulcan and fully trained in the mental disciplines of that world, which would give him the capability of voiding these types of scans."

Carmichael cut in. "Does Prosecution have any scientific facts to verify that statement?"

"Those facts," Alsop said, "and many others, will be made available."

It came as no surprise when the presiding officer ruled for a general court-martial. Addressing Spock directly, he said, "Do you wish to enter a plea at this time?"

Spock rose and gave the only possible reply. "Not guilty."

The judge gathered up the printouts on his desk and said, "Due to the gravity of the charge against him, the defendant is to be confined at the Starbase Detention Center until the completion of his trial."

Across the courtroom, Lauren's voice rang out. "Your honor, please…"

Carmichael shot to his feet. "Sir, I must ask you to reconsider. Contrary to the fanciful portrait the prosecutor has painted, my client is not dangerous. Captain Spock has an exemplary, even heroic, service record. For over nine years he has honorably served as commandant of Starfleet Academy. He is a man with heavy family responsibilities—the wife whom you see here, and three young children, one of whom is chronically ill. On their behalf, I appeal to you…"

Alsop spoke up. "Sir, let's not forget who is the victim here. Neither this man nor his family, but a patient lying unconscious at Starfleet Medical Center, imprisoned in a body that may be permanently ruined. Captain James T. Kirk."

The presiding officer lifted his hand, indicating that the arguments were at an end. Spock mentally prepared himself for the trip back to Detention.

Then the judge said, "Out of regard for Captain Spock's record…and responsibilities…I am confining him to Base." Once more he addressed Spock. "You will be assigned to defendant housing and implanted with a monitor chip. Should you attempt to tamper with the monitor or leave Base, you will be immediately returned to Detention. Is that understood?"

Relieved to escape confinement, Spock rose again and said, "Yes, sir."

The hearing was at an end.

The prosecuting attorney shook her head in annoyance, but meticulously avoided Spock's eyes as she gathered her notes and left the courtroom. Lauren crossed over to the defendant's table and heedless of any curious eyes, gave Spock a quick hug.

"This is a nightmare," she said with a shudder. "Who are these two witnesses? How can their scans be so different from what actually happened? It's impossible."

"So it would seem," Spock concurred.

Grim-faced, Carmichael snapped his briefcase shut. "Let me tell you, by the look of things this nightmare is likely to get worse before we can wake up and put it behind us."

Spock spied a dark movement at the periphery of his vision. Even before turning, he sensed what he would find. Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan completed his journey from the back of the courtroom and nodded a silent greeting for Lauren and Carmichael.

Sarek's brooding eyes found Spock. "I will speak with you in private."

Tailed by a guard, Spock accompanied his father to an adjoining room used by prisoners and their lawyers, where they were allowed a few moments of privacy. As the door hissed shut, Sarek confronted Spock, and his stony expression made it clear that he had not come to offer assistance. Spock was long past the age of dependence. According to the Vulcan way, his innocence—if in fact he were innocent—would in time clearly reveal itself.

Sarek tucked his hands deep within the wide sleeves of his robe. "I have been permitted to view the scans that will be used against you in court. The evidence is most incriminating."

"Yes," Spock agreed. His father would also have reviewed his scans, yet Sarek's eyes seemed to question him—no, they seemed to accuse him outright of tampering with the truth. With a pang Spock thought, _because I am half human, he suspects me of treachery._

"I am afraid," Sarek said, "that all this has put quite a strain on your mother. For the sake of her health I am returning with her to Vulcan…away from the distasteful storm of publicity that will no doubt surround your court-martial."

An uneasy silence settled over the room.

Sarek's piercing gaze effectively conveyed his disgust. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

Spock forced his voice steady. "I have no explanation for the evidence against me. I have entered my plea. It would be a simple matter for you to verify it."

He held himself still, waiting to see if his father would take up the veiled challenge to join minds with him. The moment stretched. Sarek broke eye contact and half turned away. His disinclination to meld struck Spock like a slap in the face.

"You realize," Sarek said without looking at him, "what will happen if you are convicted."

Spock stared at his father. There was no need for Sarek to explain. Clearly, the ambassador was referring to _ktorr skann,_ the outcast status he had pronounced upon his firstborn son after Sybok criminally abused his mental powers. If Spock was convicted, he would also be deemed guilty of misusing his Vulcan mental abilities—falsifying court-ordered memory and verifier scans. For that, and for the crime of attempted murder, he would be banished from Vulcan forever.

Spock struggled to master his anger. "You would do that to my mother—to your grandchildren?"

Sarek beheld him with sadness and disappointment. "No, Spock. It is you, who by your actions would do it."

With a soft rustling of robes, he was gone.

oooo

Spock found the weeks of inactivity leading up to his court-martial tedious. Lauren came daily to his small quarters, sometimes bringing the children along, but any illusion of freedom shattered when it came time for her to leave. It was difficult explaining to Simon what was happening when even Spock did not fully understand it. By now he had viewed the incriminating scans repeatedly. Over and over again he searched without success for some flaw, some telltale sign that the scans had somehow been altered. It was almost enough to make him doubt the accuracy of his own memories. After all, he had been severely poisoned, his entire nervous system shocked very nearly to death. Could he trust his recollection of that time? Should he?

"Don't say that!" Lauren told him one particularly discouraging day when he finally voiced his doubts. "My God, even Carmichael believes in you."

"It is Carmichael's job to believe in me," Spock pointed out. "He would defend me even if I were clearly guilty."

"But you _aren't_ guilty." Lauren placed her hands on either side of his face, as if to keep him from looking away. "You've shown me your memories. I've lived them with you, and they're true. You're no more capable of trying to kill Jim than…than trying to kill your own brother."

Something deeper than logic told him she was right; they both knew it for a fact, but it was Spock who finally voiced the words. "What you say must be true. I _love_ Jim."

After she departed, he left his quarters and went for a walk before night set in. It was early December. He pulled his overcoat tight against the chill wind as he limped along the boundaries of the base. People saw him coming and changed direction. They knew exactly who he was. _Spock. Former commandant of Starfleet Academy. Tried to murder Captain Kirk for taking liberties with his daughter._ It was as if he had already been convicted.

As he stopped to rest his legs, he looked up at the moon, a slim crescent in the twilight sky. And for the first time since his arrest he admitted to himself that he was frightened.

"…Father?"

The hesitant voice drew his thoughts back to Earth, and Spock swung around. A young, dark-haired woman walked toward him across the green.

"T'Beth?" he questioned.

With typical exuberance, she broke into a run and embraced him, digging her fingers into his coat as if she would never let him go.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she stepped back. "They can't possibly find you guilty. This whole thing is ridiculous!"

Spock had no words with which to reassure his daughter. "T'Beth, you should have stayed at your work on Sydok. There's no reason for you to go through this."

Her face hardened. "I've been subpoenaed—as a witness for the prosecution. I'm not surprised, considering their so-called 'motive'. But if they think they're going to pump me for incriminating evidence…"

"They will do their utmost," Spock said with grim realism, "to make your relationship with Jim appear so sordid that it would seem impossible for me not to condemn it." Some embarrassment was unavoidable, and he paused. "It must be deeply distressing for you to have your privacy invaded in this manner. I am truly sorry."

T'Beth shook her head. "Father, I'd shout my sins from the rooftops if it would just get you out of this." Moving to his side, she threaded her arm through his. "Come on, let's walk together."

oooo

Sitting stiffly in uniform, Spock studied the faces of the five officers who were to rule on his case—Vice-admiral Margaret Light, Commodore Paulo Vincenti, Captain Ben Rosencrantz, and the Sydok Captain Bith-To-Ree. As the presiding officer, Admiral Phil Beckman sat at the center of the panel.

Spock knew their reputations and was satisfied that he would receive an impartial ruling, but he had no illusions as to which way the testimony would lean. If he were to enter this courtroom as a disinterested observer, he would have to convict himself.

Now he looked on as the eyewitnesses to his "crime" took the stand. Although the crewmen's scans had already been submitted as evidence, Hanson and Kona took turns verbally recounting the details of what they saw that day in Alpha Quadrant. Avoiding Spock's eyes, they nervously described how he had left the captain and later returned to stalk him and throw Kirk headlong into the spewing poison. According to them, Spock then dragged the convulsing captain into the pool and thrust him underwater to ensure his death. At that point the poison that had inadvertently marked Spock was having its effect, and he'd had no choice but to call the Enterprise for assistance. They both asserted that he clearly said, " _One_ to beam up."

Spock had no recollection of summoning the Enterprise, which indicated to him that he had been in far worse condition than Henson and Kona described. Carmichael brought out that point during cross-examination, as well as the question of how Kirk was beamed aboard if there had been no order to do so.

Theodore Kona was on the stand. "Their bodies were touching," he explained, "so the transporter brought them up together."

"How clumsy of Spock," Carmichael observed. "If he had meant for Kirk to die in the water, I would think he'd have taken particular care to stand apart."

"Maybe he didn't have the strength," Kona suggested, "but I know what I saw and what I heard."

"Yes, of course. You saw a man without the strength to move a few inches speak clearly and succinctly into a communicator."

"You've seen the scans," Kona said defensively.

"Yes," Carmichael said, "I've seen your scans and I've also seen Captain Spock's scans which unfortunately reflect his memory lapse at the time he was beamed up. Please explain one thing to me. As you stood watching what you construed to be the murder of your ship's captain, why didn't you intervene?"

Kona's explanation mirrored the testimony given earlier by Peter Henson. "It all happened so fast. I couldn't believe my eyes…"

Carmichael gave a thoughtful nod. "And later? Why didn't you come forward with the story aboard ship? Why did you wait more than a month before reporting a near-fatal assault against your captain?"

Kona slumped in the witness seat, the very picture of remorse. "I know it was wrong, but you have to understand. This was Captain Spock. With his reputation…I figured, who would believe _me?"_

Carmichael looked skeptical. "Not believe you? All they had to do was run a scan."

Kona shrugged. "Sir, that's the way I remember it."

Carmichael turned to the panel. "Sirs, I would like to note once again that the standard log tapes from the Enterprise transporter room—tapes that would carry the ship's record of Captain Spock's beam-up command as well as the events immediately surrounding his arrival in the transporter room—are 'unavailable', whatever that means. Somehow, a valuable piece of evidence has turned up missing, and the crewman on transporter duty that day just cannot seem to remember. Since the defendant was judged by sickbay to be 'totally incapacitated' throughout the journey to Starfleet Medical Center, and has had no access to the Enterprise since his recovery, these peculiarities cannot be blamed on him."

"So noted," Admiral Beckman acknowledged.

T'Beth was then called to the stand as a hostile witness. Looking nervous, she took a seat and placed her hand palm-down on the verifier plate. Her eyes met Spock's as a computer voice summarized her service record, then the questioning began. Little by little the prosecutor moved toward her association with Captain Kirk, who was portrayed as a lifelong philanderer.

Finally Alsop asked, "Was this…relationship…something you discussed with your father?"

T'Beth's hand shifted from the verifier plate and resettled. "He knew we were friends."

"Friends. But nothing more than…friends."

T'Beth's face grew flushed.

"I see you are embarrassed," noted Alsop. "And perhaps you were embarrassed to tell your father the whole truth? Perhaps even afraid of how he might react?"

Carmichael's hand came up. "Objection. Prosecution is leading the witness."

"Objection sustained," ruled the bench.

The prosecutor rephrased her question. "Lieutenant Lemoine, as a minor, did you ever kiss Captain Kirk? On the mouth, passionately?"

T'Beth's eyes locked onto Alsop's face. "Captain Kirk never did anything inappropriate."

The verifier signaled an untruthful response.

Alsop faintly smiled. "And you? Did you ever behave inappropriately with Kirk?"

T'Beth was silent.

"Let it be noted that the witness declines to answer."

And so it continued.

oooo

At noon recess, Spock was striding back and forth in a court conference room when Lauren and T'Beth arrived. He immediately stopped. Though the activity was more of a medical necessity than a nervous release, it was unseemly for a Vulcan to pace. He watched in silence while his wife and daughter set out the luncheon they had brought. The smell of the food was faintly nauseating. Their voices seemed to carry to him from a distance; he was so deeply absorbed in his own thoughts that he scarcely heard their tense, softly spoken words.

 _"_ _Wait until they put Scotty and McCoy on the stand…you'll see what happens…it's going to be fine…they'll never convict you…"_

Spock retreated to a chair and leaning forward, rested his elbows on his knees. Lowering his face into his hands, he wrestled the layers upon layers of encroaching emotion. Around him, the room grew very still.

Lauren came up beside him and touched his back, but it was T'Beth who spoke. "Father, this is awful…and it's all my fault. If only I'd left Jim alone. I was the one in the wrong. I was always trying to seduce _him…"_

Spock waited until he was certain of his control. Then lowering his hands, he looked upon his daughter's stricken face and said, "All that is in the past—you were very young—driven by Sy energies you did not fully understand. But that is not the issue here. We, at least, have an opportunity to try and defend ourselves. I am distressed by the harm being done to the captain's reputation."

T'Beth went white to the lips. "It _is_ my fault. We all know I made Jim have feelings for me. Maybe it's time I told the court."

Spock rose and took her hands into his. Her fingers were icy. "No, T'Beth. I do not believe Jim would want you to reveal such a private matter—even if it were entirely true. How do you know that he was not already attracted to you? There is nothing to be served by testifying about this."

"But Father…"

"Spock's right," Lauren said. "One of the presiding officers is Sydok, so it seems that Alsop's decided not to bring up your Sy heritage. I say thank God, and let's leave it at that." She looked at Spock. "What do you think is going to happen this afternoon?"

Spock released his daughter's hands and considered the grim prospect of the day's remaining testimony. "McCoy and Scott will be used by the prosecution to its own ends. If there is any remaining time, Doctor Sayda Stackhouse will no doubt testify to my inherent mental instability."

oooo

"Jim…" T'Beth's heart slammed as she breathed the captain's name. Stepping nearer his bed, she looked upon the man who had meant so much to her over the years. The sight of him lying comatose was horrifying.

"Jim," her voice choked. "It's me—T'Beth."

His pallid face remained composed, as if in sleep. She edged closer and caught a scent of beard repressor from his well-groomed body. That was all he seemed to be now—a body devoid of the warm, vigorous personality that had once characterized James Kirk.

T'Beth shuddered. She was glad that she had not seen her father like this. She was glad that Lauren had downplayed the severity of his condition until his recovery was well underway. Lauren knew how illness and death frightened her. T'Beth had thought she would never find the courage to enter this room, yet here she was.

Why now? To comfort him? Or did she actually think Jim could somehow reach out from the bed and comfort her? _Relax, kiddo, don't let it worry you. Spock's gotten out of tight scrapes before…_

She blinked the tears from her eyes and touched his tousled, graying hair. "Please live," she begged. It just couldn't end this way—not slow and senseless—not when he still had so much life left in him—and she, so much love to give.

"Come back," she whispered. "We need you. _I_ need you."

Jim slept on.

Taking his lifeless hand, she kissed it, eyes closed, offering a heartfelt prayer for his recovery.

oooo

Spock watched as Doctor McCoy took the witness stand. The doctor sat stiffly while his service record was read.

Benita Alsop approached him. "I understand that you've been friends with both Captain Kirk and Captain Spock for decades. Close friends—isn't that right?"

"Yes…" McCoy answered guardedly.

"Yet some friction arose between you and Captain Kirk. It continued for several years. Can you tell me the source of that friction?"

McCoy was still as stone. His eyes flicked to Spock at the defense table before returning to the prosecutor.

"Doctor?" prompted Alsop. "Let me refresh your memory. The trouble began when Captain Spock's daughter was 16 years of age. There was a camping trip at Yosemite. You were all there."

McCoy's eyes widened with a level of dismay that clearly equaled Spock's own. Who but the participants of that campout could possibly know of what transpired? Had T'Beth or Kirk once let a hint drop to some sympathetic ear? Or perhaps even McCoy himself?

"Yes," the doctor grudgingly replied. "I was there."

"And something unusual happened."

McCoy broke into an anxious smile. "It sure did. Captain Spock and Doctor Fielding announced their intention to marry."

A ripple of laughter passed through the courtroom.

Alsop nodded. "Very amusing. Tell me, how long have you known Captain Spock's daughter, Cristabeth?"

"I've known her since she was eleven."

"Is that what you call her? Cristabeth?"

"No. I call her T'Beth. It's a…sort of nickname."

"I see," said the prosecutor. "Do you know how that nickname originated?"

"I sure do," McCoy answered. "Her father gave it to her."

"Really." Alsop turned and glanced over at Spock. "Doctor McCoy, to your knowledge, is Captain Spock in the habit of passing out nicknames?"

It was a moment before McCoy replied. "Well, no…"

"Can you think of anyone else he calls by a nickname?"

"No, I can't—not offhand."

The prosecutor smiled. "Then one would assume that he must be very fond of this particular daughter—of 'T'Beth'." McCoy's eyes narrowed as she went on. "He would, in fact, feel very protective."

"Any father would," McCoy said heatedly.

"Were you ever aware of any inappropriate behavior between Kirk and Spock's underage daughter?"

McCoy glowered.

"Surely you knew Kirk's reputation for—shall we say—playing the field? And his reputation for breaking rules?"

Carmichael stood. "Objection! Captain Kirk is not on trial here, nor are rumors admissible as evidence."

Alsop faced the judge. "Captain Kirk's behavior has a direct bearing on the motive in this case."

"Overruled."

Alsop turned back to McCoy and seemed to change the subject. "Doctor, there was another camping trip at Yosemite and it's well known that Kirk fell as he was climbing El Capitan."

"Damned right," McCoy said, nodding vigorously. "Spock caught Jim before he hit the ground. Spock _saved his life."_

"Caught him? How was that possible?"

"Spock was wearing jet boots. He swooped down and saved Jim in the nick of time."

The prosecutor appeared thoughtful as she slowly walked back and forth before the witness stand. Coming to a halt, she said, "Spock 'swooped down', you say. Swooped down from where?"

"From the rock face. He'd been hovering there, talking to Jim."

Alsop looked shocked. "Talking to Captain Kirk while he was making an unassisted climb of El Capitan?"

McCoy saw where the question was leading, and went silent.

Alsop began again. "Isn't it true that Spock made it a habit to study out—to investigate—any new activity, even vacation activity your party planned to engage in?"

McCoy glanced Spock's way and conceded, "Yes. That's his habit. It's that Vulcan mind of his, always inquiring into things."

"Then that day at Yosemite, Spock must have known the importance of maintaining an upward momentum when climbing a dangerous rock face. He must have understood something of the concentration needed for such an ascent. Yet he was up there hovering around, carrying on a conversation with Captain Kirk?"

McCoy grew visibly flustered. "Maybe he _didn't_ realize it—maybe he _didn't_ know!"

"Oh, he knew alright," Alsop said, "and I submit that it was Captain Spock's fond hope that by distracting Kirk, the captain would lose his footing, which he did—and plunge to certain death."

"No!" McCoy cried. "Never! And besides, Spock caught him! I saw it through my binoculars!"

The prosecutor suppressed a condescending smile. "With your binoculars. Of course. You were watching from below El Capitan."

McCoy drew himself up. "That's right."

"I think it very likely that Spock also became aware that you were watching. Vulcan eyesight is very acute. A flash of sunlight reflecting off a binocular lens, a telltale motion. He would have known how suspicious his distracting behavior would appear. He had no choice at that point but to save Kirk or be branded a thoughtless fool, if not an outright murderer."

McCoy bristled with fury. "No, dammit! And besides, that was before—" He broke off, eyes wide with the realization that he had slipped.

The presiding officer brought down his gavel. "The witness will restrain himself."

Alsop raised an eyebrow. "Before? Before what, Doctor? Before Captain Kirk's improprieties began? Before Captain Spock became aware of them?"

When McCoy gave no answer, she announced that the prosecution was finished with him. A glass of water was handed to the fuming doctor. Carmichael's cross-examination helped calm McCoy, but it seemed to Spock that the remaining testimony did little to repair the damage.

Looking worn and discouraged, McCoy made way for Montgomery Scott. The engineer sat ramrod straight as the prosecutor bombarded him with difficult questions. It came as no surprise to Spock that Alsop had chosen to explore Sybok's takeover of the Enterprise, and the mental influence he had exerted over the crew.

Alsop faced the engineer. "Remember now, if you can, the crash landing of the shuttlecraft Galileo in hangar bay."

"I'm not likely to forget it," Scott declared.

"Records show it was a manual landing—so rough that the passengers were badly shaken. Not everyone emerged from the shuttle at once, and there was a great deal of confusion. Is the record correct, Mister Scott?"

"That's exactly so," Scott said, eyeing her warily, "but I don't see what any o' this has to do with the ridiculous charge against Captain Spock."

Alsop smiled patiently. "Just tell the court what you saw that day when you arrived at the landing bay."

Scott drew in a deep breath. "I was in the observation booth. First off, I appraised the damage to the bay and made sure the airlock was secure. Then I turned my attention to the shuttle."

"And what did you see?"

"The shuttle hatch was open. Down below, Captain Kirk was strugglin' with…with Spock's brother—though of course I didna' know he was Spock's brother then." His voice dropped. "I'm afraid Kirk was gettin' the worst of it."

Alsop nodded. "Was either man armed?"

Scott's gaze dropped. "Aye. Sybok had a primitive kind of rifle, but it was deadly enough."

"And what happened to that rifle, Mister Scott?"

The engineer sighed and shifted his ample weight. "Captain Kirk kicked it from Sybok's hand. It slid across the deck…"

"And where did the rifle come to rest, Mister Scott?"

Scott sighed again. "Spock had come out o' the shuttle. The rifle slid across the deck an' practically hit him in the feet."

The prosecutor moved to block his view of the defendant. "What did Spock do with the weapon? Did he pick it up and come to Kirk's aid?"

Though Spock could not see Scott's face, he could well imagine the inner conflict it revealed.

"No," Scott said at last.

"A weapon at his feet, and he did nothing—nothing at all to help Captain Kirk?"

"Up in the booth, I swore at him—I did—but of course he couldna' hear me. Finally he bent down, slow as molasses, an' picked up the gun."

Alsop remained in front of Scott. "So now Spock stood with the rifle in his hands. Did he arrest Sybok?"

"…No. I was that furious. I didna' ken how he could just _stand_ there…"

"You mean he did nothing? Nothing at all?"

Scott's voice was thick with remembered anguish. "Aye. He let Sybok walk right up an' take the gun out of his hands. I never saw the likes of it…"

As the prosecutor left Scott, he glanced at Spock and turned his head aside.

"I think," Alsop said, "that we can understand why Captain Spock acted as he did that day—why he failed to use the weapon right there in his hands. Even then Spock was aware of the prurient interest Kirk was developing for his young daughter, and would have liked Sybok to kill him."

Resisting an urge to shout, Spock shook his head in mute denial.

"Objection!" called Carmichael. "This is nothing but conjecture."

There followed the usual cross-examination, during which Carmichael drew from Scott some small observations helpful to Spock's case, but there was no question that the testimony had been ruinous.

The Chief of Psychiatry at Starfleet Medical Center now took the stand, and the computer reeled off a lengthy record of her professional achievements.

Spock had little regard for Doctor Sayda Stackhouse, who had once attempted to analyze him. Prosecution could not have chosen a more damning 'expert' on his psychological makeup. "Dichotomy", she called it—the inner tension inherent to his duel nature.

"I have seen him deeply angry," she testified, "and I've seen what effort it takes for him to control that anger. Although he adheres to a high standard of morality, he is also quite capable of vengeful, murderous thoughts. Yes, it is possible that he had long schemed to eliminate Captain Kirk, but stopped short each time, creating an ever-increasing emotional pressure…until the ultimate unleashing of his deadly intent."

Spock sat back and listened as Carmichael tried valiantly to salvage the case.

"You make the defendant sound like a very dangerous man, yet you cleared him for starship duty."

"He was treated by a reputable Vulcan healer and subsequently passed the necessary examinations. But Vulcans themselves refer to their primal nature as 'savage'."

A hint of Carmichael's frustration leaped out as he said, "Humans have also been called 'savage', Doctor Stackhouse. Over the course of his lifetime, Captain Spock has displayed the highest standards of Vulcan and human decency. _That_ is his nature. Why would he suddenly abandon all his ethics and attack his best friend?"

Stackhouse gazed coolly at Spock. "There are many kinds of ethical demands, counselor. One of the strongest among Vulcans involves family ties."

Carmichael seemed on the verge of losing his temper. Collecting himself, he said, "I don't know why, Doctor, but I get the distinct impression that you don't much like Captain Spock."

"Objection!" called Alsop.

The objection was overruled.

"He did not cooperate with your treatment and instead chose a Vulcan healer. Is that why you dislike him?"

The psychiatrist was unperturbed. "I have not said that I dislike him. During the brief course of Spock's treatment, I found him to be an interesting patient."

"But you felt slighted when he chose a Vulcan healer."

Smoothly she replied, "I had always suggested to him that his needs would be better served by a healer trained in Vulcan ways."

Carmichael pressed for an answer. "Do you or do you not dislike the defendant?"

Stackhouse sat ramrod straight. "Sir, I am a professional."

Carmichael sighed aloud. "No further questions."


	3. The Definition of a Lie

**3\. The Definition of a Lie**

Lauren opened the door to Spock's apartment and their children rushed in. To Teresa and James, these visits were big adventures. Eyes glowing, they spied their father in the crowded little living room and clambered onto his lap with abandon. Simon caught sight of a stranger among the guests and hung back. Although he felt perfectly at ease with his sister T'Beth and Doctor McCoy, he had never met Mister Scott before.

The chief engineer of the Enterprise abruptly stopped what he was saying to watch the rambunctious toddlers vying for Spock's attention. Rising from a chair, he greeted Lauren, then centered his kindly gaze on Simon.

"Is this your eldest lad?" Scott asked.

"Yes," Lauren replied. "His name is Simon."

"Aye," Scott said softly as he studied the boy. "I've heard tell of him." His eyes grew misty as he turned back to Spock and addressed him in an aggrieved voice. "I'm deeply sorry, for all it's worth. The words…the words came out wrong, somehow. I never meant to harm you or yere family…"

Spock nodded. "I know, Mister Scott. Believe me, I know. You must not berate yourself. It is the prosecutor's job to make the words come out wrong."

The guilt-stricken engineer turned his gray head aside. "I'll be there tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Spock told him.

Scott let himself out of the apartment.

"He is taking it very hard," Spock said after the door closed.

Seated beside T'Beth on the sofa, McCoy frowned. "Me and _my_ big mouth."

Spock's eyebrow edged upward. "Doctor, if I am convicted, it will be on the strength of Henson and Kona's testimony."

Hesitantly Simon approached his father. "Are…are you going to jail? The kids at school say…"

"That I am a murderer?"

Simon hung his head, as if too ashamed to repeat the children's cruel words.

"Whatever evidence to the contrary," Spock told him, "I did not try to kill Captain Kirk. I tried to save him."

"But the scans," Simon argued tearfully.

"The scans are wrong."

Lauren held tight to her emotions as Simon buried his face in his father's shoulder. The past months had been hard on the boy. More than once Lauren had considered taking him out of school, but a private instructor could never replace the rich musical program at the Virginia Hatch Institute. She was glad that Teresa and James were too young to understand what was happening to their father, but should Spock be sent to prison, they too would eventually suffer the painful consequences. _Prison!_ Her mind recoiled from the thought.

T'Beth came over and touched her arm. "Come on, let's go in the kitchen. We'll fix something for dinner."

Lauren followed her stepdaughter to the kitchenette's food replicator. There, T'Beth held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"I know you're scared," T'Beth said. "So am I. But even if things go against us, we have to hold on. We have to remember that it won't last forever. Whatever sentence the court issues, he'll find a way out…or we'll find one for him."

Lauren's voice was hushed. "Are you talking about a jail break?"

T'Beth let her hands drop to her sides. "I'd like nothing better," she said with conviction. "This isn't justice. He's been framed, clear and simple. But by whom? And why?"

"I've asked myself that question a thousand times," Lauren told her. "And so has Spock."

T'Beth's face was grim. "I wish I could just sneak him out of here—right now—and make a run for it before they have a chance to lock him up."

"We've considered doing just that," Lauren admitted, "but he wants to exhaust every legal channel."

T'Beth stared at her. "You're serious? He's really talked about escaping?"

"T'Beth," Lauren said gently, "your father has a high regard for the law, but he doesn't feel bound to serve years in prison for a crime he didn't commit."

At that, she turned to scan the replicator's menu.

oooo

Testimony for the defense had not been going well. As the second to the last witness, the Vulcan healer T'Mira was undergoing cross-examination by the prosecutor. It was T'Mira who had once treated Spock, and she had also officiated at his bonding ceremony. Though T'Mira's face remained carefully impassive, Spock could tell she was not pleased with the part she was being compelled to play.

"Even among Vulcans," the prosecutor was saying, "it is a well-known fact that humans can lie. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," T'Mira answered.

"Is it not also true that a Vulcan is capable of regulating his autonomic functions?"

"Yes," T'Mira said.

"Then…a half human who is trained in Vulcan ways could conceivably regulate his autonomic responses in such a way as to make himself appear—even under verifier scan—to be telling the truth, when in fact he is lying through his teeth?"

T'Mira failed to respond.

Alsop looked at her. "Do you understand the question?"

"I understand it," replied the healer. Her dark eyes met Spock's, full of unspoken apology. "It is, of course, conceivable—but highly unlikely when applied to one of such high character as Captain Spock."

"Yet," the prosecutor stressed, "such a thing _is_ conceivable."

T'Mira's eyes dropped. "Yes."

Alsop nodded in satisfaction. "There are Vulcan mental abilities not widely known among outworlders. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes," T'Mira said.

"As I understand it, a Vulcan is quite capable—should he so choose—of projecting false mental images while under a memory scan. Is that correct?"

"A Vulcan would not choose to falsify a memory scan."

"But," Alsop pressed, "he would have the mental capacity?"

T'Mira hesitated, then said, "Yes."

At the completion of the healer's testimony, Spock was finally called to the stand. Following Carmichael's line of questioning, he described that fateful day when the accident occurred. Then came the cross-examination.

In a casual manner, the prosecutor said, "Go ahead, if you wish—keep your palm on the verifier—though, as we've previously established, it really has no binding legal significance in your case."

Spock controlled his gut reaction to the insult. He would not be provoked.

Abruptly Alsop said, "Tell me about your brother Sybok."

At those jarring words, Carmichael rose from the defendant's table. "Objection! Captain Spock's deceased brother can have no possible bearing on these proceedings."

The prosecutor addressed the bench. "Sir, as you'll soon see, this line of questioning is of great importance to the case."

Beckman called the attorneys to the bench for a murmured conference, but Spock easily heard what they were saying. Working to maintain his composure, he turned and briefly found the anxious faces of his wife and daughter. Did they suspect where the prosecutor was leading? It was quite a clever move, and would likely prove fatal to Spock's shaky defense. He found himself thinking, _Jim. Wake up. Remember._ But even if Kirk walked into the courtroom this very moment, how useful would his testimony be? What had he actually witnessed? A spurt of toxin, a body colliding with his. But at least he would have an opportunity to defend his own tarnished reputation.

As the attorneys returned from the bench, the presiding officer said, "Objection overruled. The witness is directed to answer the question."

The court recorder replayed the prosecutor's words. "Tell me about your brother Sybok."

Spock nodded in grim acceptance. "Sybok was…my half-brother."

"Please describe to the court your relationship with him."

Spock chose to take the directive literally. "He was another son of my father, by a previous bonding."

"Was he fully Vulcan?"

"Yes."

"Older than you."

"That is correct."

Alsop paced slowly before the witness stand. "Sybok must have made quite an impression on you—being older and completely Vulcan." She stopped and smiled. "I have an older sister, and as a kid I was always tagging along and trying to copy her."

Spock kept his face devoid of expression.

The prosecutor's smile disappeared. "Is it true that as a young man your brother was permanently expelled from Vulcan?"

Spock could not help but wince. Such an intensely private matter should never be aired in a public forum. But this was high drama, this was Earth, where reporters were eagerly taking down every word in their viewing room.

"Yes," he conceded at last.

"Your brother was a criminal, wasn't he? A criminal and a terrorist."

The courtroom hummed with an undercurrent of conversation.

Once more Spock looked toward his family and found sympathetic anger in their eyes. "That is correct…" he said, the softly spoken words fading into silence.

Beckman addressed him from the bench. "Please speak up."

Spock drew a slow, deep breath and firmly repeated, "That is correct."

The prosecutor nodded in satisfaction. "Tell me, if you will, the nature of the crime your brother committed on Vulcan."

The details of Sybok's crime—all mention of his very existence—had long been erased from Vulcan records. Spock would not break that prohibition here, even if it meant a charge of contempt. Focusing on empty air, he declared, "There is such a thing as the Vulcan Rules of Silence…"

Alsop turned and took a stack of printouts off her table. "No matter. I present to the court these depositions from former members of Sybok's terrorist organization, the Galactic Army of Light. Their testimony clearly states that Sybok—Spock's elder brother—admitted that he was banished from Vulcan for assaulting and permanently injuring an elderly Vulcan adept by use of a forbidden mind-meld technique. A brutal act, a ruthless act carried out to gain information only the adept could give him. And there is more. Much more."

After handing out the depositions, she faced Spock. "Vulcans aren't supposed to do those ugly kinds of things. Murder people…injure them…and tell lies." Gazing steadily at him, she said, "Tell me, Captain. Can you lie?"

"Vulcans do not lie," Spock asserted.

"But you aren't fully Vulcan. Do _you_ tell lies?"

"No," Spock replied.

Alsop tugged thoughtfully at her earlobe. "Interesting. A few years ago you participated in a covert mission to Donari, during which you were captured. Tell me, what is the name you gave when interrogated by K-Kotle's people?"

Spock saw no choice but to step squarely into the prosecutor's trap. "The name I gave was Yosef ben Saban."

Alsop's eyes widened in mock surprise. "But that's a lie! Isn't it?"

"Not a lie," Spock differentiated, "but an alternate identity that I was under orders to use."

"Oh. In other words, if a falsehood suits your purpose, you would not consider it a lie."

"Objection!" called Carmichael. "I think even the good prosecutor knows the difference between a military cover story and a bald-faced lie."

Alsop addressed the panel. "Sirs, since the accused maintains his inability to lie, it is vital that we understand precisely what he means by that."

"Proceed," Beckman ruled.

The prosecutor turned her attention back on Spock. "Let's approach this from another angle. Regarding your capture by the Donaris—do you feel that you conveyed to them a false image or impression of your identity?"

"Yes," Spock said, "of course. However—"

"Very well," Alsop interrupted. "I ask the court computer to recite for the record Webster's standard definition of the word 'lie', as used in this context."

The silken computer voice spoke loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the courtroom. "Lie: to convey a false image or impression; a deliberate falsehood."

Heated comments erupted from the spectators. Spock focused on the chamber's wall while Admiral Beckman brought the court back to order.

Finally there was silence.

Once more Alsop approached Spock. "You heard Webster's definition?"

"I did," he replied.

"Do you in any way dispute it?"

There was no simple answer to her question. Spock gave no reply.

"Then, by your own testimony, you lied to the Donaris! By your own admission you are capable of a deliberate falsehood!"

"Objection!" Carmichael's voice rang out. "The defendant made no such statement."

"Sustained," ruled the bench.

Prosecution yielded the floor and Carmichael brought Spock's testimony to its conclusion.

oooo

The jury panel had completed its first day of deliberation. After dinner, Spock was alone with Lauren in his apartment when someone rapped on the front door. They shared a glance. Then Lauren rose and triggered the door open. Spock heard her exchange quiet words with the visitor before ushering the person inside.

It was Carol Marcus. As her eyes settled on Spock, her expression hardened and she came to an abrupt halt.

Spock stood. "Doctor Marcus," he greeted her and proceeded to the introductions. "This is my wife, Doctor Lauren Fielding. Lauren, this is…" He hesitated, unsure of the proper human etiquette for describing Carol's relationship to Jim. He took what seemed the safest route. "Carol Marcus is a close acquaintance of Captain Kirk."

Marcus thrust her hands into her coat pockets and gave Lauren a chilly look. "Good. I'm glad you're both here."

Her eyes blazed with hostility as she turned to Spock. "You know, I never much liked you from the first minute we met. But Jim did—I don't for the life of me know why. I guess he had a soft spot for computers."

Lauren stirred. "Now wait just one minute…"

"Let her speak," Spock said.

"Well thank you, sir," Marcus addressed him with deep sarcasm. "I've sat listening in that courtroom until I'm sick to my stomach. You were in that oasis before Jim. I'm willing to bet your tricorder revealed every detail of that poison plant. You saw an opportunity to get rid of him, and you took it." Her eyes narrowed to blue ice. "You deceitful, calculating son-of-a-bitch! My son—Jim's son—died to help save your worthless hide. Now you've taken Jim's life, too, and you're going to pay for it, do you hear me? You're going to pay!"

Whirling, she stormed out of the apartment and the door hissed shut behind her.

Numbed, Spock released his breath slowly. He turned and went into the bedroom…then promptly forgot his purpose for going there…except perhaps to be alone.

Lauren came to the open doorway, her face white. "What if they all feel that way? Even the jury?"

"Then," he told her in as calm a tone as he could manage, "I will be in prison for a long time."

"No!" Lauren's anguished cry nearly brought tears to Spock's eyes. "No, you won't! They can't do that. You're innocent..."

He stood gazing upon his beloved wife, wanting to believe with her, but fearing it was not to be. "The case against me is very strong."

Tears brimmed in her eyes and began to fall. "Oh God, they can't do that. They can't take you away…"

Spock went over and kissed her trembling mouth, then held her close. The sobs that broke from her seemed to lodge in his own throat. "If it comes to that," he told her, "we will appeal."

"How?" she moaned. "On what grounds?"

"Perhaps some new evidence will emerge," he suggested, though it seemed a very slim hope.

Even so, Lauren quieted in his arms. Spock felt her warm breath on his neck and gently stroked her hair. His mind refused the thought of living apart from her for years.

"Come," he said at last.

He guided her to the bed and sat her down beside him. His wife was a practical woman. She liked setting her hands to a concrete task, be it a medical research project or preparing a meal. Lauren was at her most content when doing something she considered useful.

Now he told her, "My legs have been very painful today," and saw the surprise register. He never complained of pain, however badly his damaged nerves throbbed.

Removing his boots, he stretched out on the bed. After a moment Lauren shifted position, as he knew she would, and her gentle, knowing hands closed over his legs. She had massaged them before, but tonight was different, for this might well be the very last time. It was simple moments such as these, Spock realized, that he would miss most of all.

Quietly he said, "I grieve with Carol Marcus for the death of her son."

Lauren's hands went still. "It wasn't your fault about David."

"I know. There were much larger issues at stake than one frightened Vulcan boy."

She continued the massage. "She had no right to talk to you that way."

"Because I am innocent? She knows only what the courtroom evidence reveals…and what her heart tells her."

Lauren's eyes glistened with fresh tears. Coming up near his head, she delivered a kiss so poignant and needful that he felt it deep in his bonding center.

When it was over, he said, "There are matters we must discuss."

She shook her head in denial. She had felt his response to her, had read the direction of his thoughts, even as he read hers. And perhaps she was right. The night was long. There would be time enough for words, later.

The blue of her eyes deepened as she bent over him again. Reaching up, Spock drew her mind and her body nearer.

oooo

Spock sat in the crowded courtroom waiting for the jury panel to appear. Beside him Commander Carmichael tried to present a confident front, but in private he had warned Spock that the verdict would likely go against them. The attorney was hoping for was a light sentence.

At precisely 1400 hours, the door behind the panel's bench slid open. The bailiff ordered everyone to their feet as the presiding officer and other jurors filed in. Then the courtroom settled into an expectant silence.

Admiral Beckman consulted a printout in his hand. "The panel of officers has reached a unanimous decision. Captain Spock, please rise for the reading of the verdict."

Spock stood. His pulse racing, he squared his shoulders to attention and focused on the wooden panels decorating the juror's bench.

"Captain Spock, the court finds you guilty of assault with the intent to commit murder."

Somewhere behind him, Spock heard a muffled gasp. _Commander Uhura._ Yes—he had briefly glimpsed her sympathetic face as he entered the chamber. Christine Chapel was seated beside her. Many of his former crewmates were present here today, as were several of Jim's relatives. Among the Kirks and Howards, Spock had seen Jim's cousin Lucas and nephew Peter. He wondered if the two of them were pleased with the verdict.

Beckman continued, "The crime you have committed against Captain James T. Kirk stands as a cowardly, disgraceful act. You hereby relinquish all rights and privileges accorded an honorable member of Starfleet, and they shall be denied you forevermore. Effective immediately, you are sentenced to serve twenty years at the Starfleet Correctional Facility on Luna."

A hubbub arose in the courtroom.

Spock made a conscious effort to slow his breathing and relax his tensed muscles. Any half-formed thought to speak vanished as a pair of guards came forward, secured him with cuffs, and walked him to the detainment room. Lauren and T'Beth came in as his legs were being shackled. Clearly holding back tears, they each embraced him. No one spoke. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

Spock's eyes lingered on their faces as the guards took him from the room.


	4. Lock-up

**4\. Lock-up**

 _Dehumanizing_. Racially inaccurate, but it was how Jim Kirk might have described the humiliating process of prison induction. In Spock' view, "degrading" seemed more appropriate.

While still on base, he was transferred to a secured location and meticulously identified, scanned for weapons, and relieved of the monitor chip that had tracked his every move since the arraignment hearing. Then the restraints came off and he was ordered to remove his uniform. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, he stripped to his warming Vulcan undergarment and donned the fluorescent orange jumpsuit and worn slippers that the guards supplied.

Silently the guards clamped his ankles and wrists back into restraints before leading him toward an unknown future on Earth's moon.

oooo

A portable fan was blowing. From behind a disorganized desk, Commander Jason Cho looked his new prisoner up and down, then said with a sneer, "How low the mighty have fallen…"

Flanked by prison guards, his hands and feet still shackled, Spock stood impassive before the warden of Luna Correctional Facility. Commander Cho had a reputation for toughness, but judging from the first words out of the man's mouth, Spock suspected a sadistic streak, as well. He decided then and there that it would be best to see as little of the warden as possible.

"So," Cho mocked him, "the famous Spock of Starfleet tried to murder his friend."

Spock focused on an area six inches above Cho's head. It was pleasantly warm here on the moon base—warm enough to make humans perspire. The air seemed so stale that Spock suspected overcrowded conditions and/or an outdated, inadequate environmental system.

"Look at me!" Cho snapped.

Spock lowered his eyes to the warden's. Small and brown, they glittered venomously in Cho's round face.

"You will not receive any special treatment here. I don't care how powerful your associates are; I don't care how influential your father might be. Here, you are nothing but a number. Here, I am your only father—and if you fail to obey the rules of my house, you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes, warden," Spock replied levelly.

Cho took a printout from his cluttered desk and gave it to one of the guards. Once more Spock was led away. The treatment here was rougher than at San Francisco. The prison guards were more inclined to shove him along despite the limp and leg shackles that made walking difficult. Each carried an encoded phaser set for individual use, inoperable in the hands of anyone else.

They came to a processing area where they removed Spock's restraints and ordered him to strip yet again. Since inmates had been known to smuggle sensor-resistant contraband into prison, he was not only scanned, but also subjected to a manual search that included every bodily cavity. There followed some sort of chemical infused shower—perhaps for the purpose of sanitation—before they permitted him to dress. The Vulcan warming suit was confiscated. In its place he received a set of slate gray underwear topped off by the standard Luna jumpsuit bearing gray and white "railroad stripes" and the vivid yellow I.D., front and back, by which he would henceforth be known: M343B.

A guard tossed him a stack of bedding and toiletry items and said, "Come on—I'll show you to your suite."

The "suite" was located in the upper tier of a caging unit labeled Cellblock 3. Spock's initial reaction to cell 43 was one of relief. Though decidely cramped, 43 contained only two bunks instead of the four he had glimpsed in many of the other cells.

As the force field closed behind him, he stood looking at his reflection in a small mirror panel at the rear of the cell. Beside it, a blank vid-screen was set flush in the metallic wall. Rousing himself, he went to the stripped-down "B" bunk and made up the bed. By the corner toilet there was a washbasin with open shelving beneath it. He cleared a small area for own belongings, then lay down to settle his mind and prepare himself for the ordeal ahead. Discordant snatches of dialogue and music echoed through the building. A ceiling light panel bothered his eyes, so he blocked the glare with an arm.

 _Twenty years._ A substantial span of time, even in the life of a Vulcan, but for Lauren the prospect was far worse, for she would age considerably. Simon and Teresa would be adults, and as for James…

For him there would be only a grave.

Spock felt a black shadow of despondency closing over him, and forcibly changed the direction of his thoughts. To survive here, he would have to keep his mind active and alert. He would need to learn how prison life operated and adapt to it.

He reviewed everything he knew about the penitentiary. Though grim and claustrophobic, it had the advantage of proximity to Earth. Visitors could easily shuttle in, if the prison's reputation did not discourage them. Luna Facility was reserved for inmates convicted of violent crimes—assault, rape, and murder.

Originally the lunar colony had been built to accommodate the community of workers who serviced a mining operation—one of the many diverse ventures of Sanger Industries. It was ironic that Lauren's forebears had constructed the very base that now imprisoned him.

When the mines became less profitable, Sanger sold the colony to Starfleet for use as a high security prison. The steady pool of convict labor mined enough rare earth elements to monetarily sustain the complex. Mine work was rigorous but paid well by prison standards, and those who secured those positions enjoyed special status in the inmates' social order. It would therefore be beneficial for Spock to secure a mining position while the appeal process went forward.

Spock heard a shift in the force field and lifted his arm away from his face. Across the cell, a tall husky human stared at him with a most unfriendly expression. Cautiously Spock sat up and appraised his fellow prisoner. The man must have been confined for some time, for blond hair fringed thickly around his ears and neck. A small tattoo at the base of his throat was most likely a gang emblem. Spock had heard that there were such organizations here.

The man's gray eyed narrowed, and he spoke a single derisive word. _"Vulcan."_

"That is correct," Spock responded.

The man spat on the floor near Spock's shoes. "You're him—the Academy big shot, the real live murdering hero! Well, big shot, what makes you think you can buy your freaking way into _my_ cell?"

Spock started to rise. Halfway up, a mining boot caught him in the chest, flinging him back across his bunk. Spock stayed where he was and explained in a reasonable tone, "The warden assigned me to this cell."

The angry convict moved in.

Muscles poised, Spock warned him, "I suggest you keep your distance. I have no wish to fight you, but I am quite capable of defending myself."

The man lunged and grabbed for him with both hands, but Spock expertly deflected the maneuver and clamped his fingers over the nerve juncture of his attacker's burly neck. With a grunt of surprise the man collapsed helplessly onto the concrete floor.

Spock heard derisive laughter and applause from a cell visible beyond the catwalk. It would have been better if the confrontation had remained private. Now his cellmate had been publicly humiliated and there was bound to be more trouble. He hoisted the limp convict onto the other bunk and returned to his uneasy thoughts.

It was almost an hour before Spock's cellmate showed any sign of reviving. Spock lay watching as the big man rubbed at his neck, sat up, and glared at him.

The prisoners across the way began taunting, "What's the matter Leo? Can't handle him?" "I guess we know who's in charge!" "Go ahead, Leo, whip his Vulcan ass—if you can!"

Infuriated, Leo leapt to his feet and viciously kicked the side of Spock's bunk. "Get up!" he commanded.

Spock briefly considered letting the convict assuage his wounded pride by beating him—but a show of weakness would likely arouse Leo's bullying instinct.

"Don't let them provoke you," Spock reasoned with him. "There is no need for us to fight."

Leo twisted his hands into the front of Spock's jumpsuit and yanked him to his feet. Spock anticipated a blow; instead, Leo gave him an abrupt shove. Thrown off-balance, Spock fell into the force field at the cell's entrance. A sharp discharge of energy struck his back like a hammer blow. Thrown clear, he landed on the floor and lay there, momentarily shaken.

Leo closed in and began kicking him. The prisoners cheered.

Roused by pain, Spock seized hold of the convict's ankle and yanked with all his strength. Leo fell hard. There was the crack of a skull hitting cement, a brief spate of cursing, and then silence.

Spock sat up and saw a pool of red blood spreading beneath Leo's head. The convict's body began to twitch. Then the force field disengaged and a squad of prison guards swarmed into the cell.

Spock stood at attention before Commander Cho's desk. A gash on his thigh had been freshly mended in the prison infirmary; it was no more troubling than the other boot bruises on his body. Though Leo's skull had been fractured by his fall, he was also expected to make a full recovery.

"Not here a day," Cho declared in a disgusted tone, "and already fighting!"

Cho rose up and came around his desk to confront Spock. His rigid aura of authority was unhampered by the fact that he stood several inches shorter than most of his prisoners. Spock was sure that many of the inmates would find the warden's power over them intimidating.

"Tell me," Cho said in a deceptively gentle voice, "do you intend to be a troublemaker?"

"No, sir," Spock replied.

"Who struck the first blow?"

Spock knew enough of prison ways to keep silent.

"Then I must assume that you did."

Spock wondered what form his punishment would take. He had not yet been introduced to the prison disciplinary code, but he suspected that Cho's discipline did not always go by the book.

Cho grunted with displeasure. Returning to his desk, he consulted a display on his computer monitor. Then he said, "The incident has been entered in your record. Think you'll get solitary? That would be easy time for a Vulcan, wouldn't it? Sorry—you're headed to the warehouse for a 72 hour work detail. Any lack of cooperation on your part will increase the time in one hour increments." He smiled without showing his teeth. "That should take some of the fight out of you."

oooo

"Get to it!" the guard ordered.

Spock's eyes swept over the vast warehouse with its countless stacks of crated provisions and equipment. The dusty, under-lit structure was easily twice the size of any storage bay aboard the Enterprise. Off in the distance he saw other prisoners opening crates and loading the contents onto various pallets.

"Never mind them!" The guard pointed to a huge cargo carrier near a delivery annex. "That one's yours—empty it out!"

Spock noticed a set of anti-gravs hanging from the warehouse wall.

"No," snapped the guard, "by hand!"

Spock's eyebrow climbed as the full scope of this exercise sank in. He opened the carrier and found it loaded all the way to the doors. Hoisting down a crate, he lugged it over to the stacking area. Then he went back for another. The cartons had not been designed for manual handling. Their smooth surfaces offered nothing to hold onto, and they were heavy—too heavy for most humans to lift on their own. By the end of the first hour, he was sweating. By the end of the first day, the damaged nerves in his legs made his muscles cramp and tremor.

At dinner time he was allotted a short period in which to eat the food brought to him, and attend to his bodily needs. Then a fresh guard ordered him back to the evening's work.

Spock's life narrowed to a gritty path between two mountains of crates. Morning came, heralded by a tray of breakfast and another brief respite from the grueling labor. Lowering himself to the floor, Spock ate as slowly as he dared, using the precious time to revive himself.

Yesterday's guard took up his post. "Five minutes," he declared, "or would you like me to tack on another hour?"

After four minutes Spock set down his tray and with some difficulty returned to his feet. He headed for the near-empty carrier.

"No!" came the astonishing order. "Now load it up again."

Spock looked at him.

"You heard me—put everything back!"

"To what purpose?" Spock dared to ask.

"To what purpose?" echoed the guard. "To make you so damn tired, you'll want to lie down and cry. Now _move!"_

oooo

It was Lauren's first time at Luna, and what she saw appalled her. The colony was so closed-in and decrepit, with its hot smelly air. Its biospheres were no substitute for the outdoors, and she had to wonder how many of the inmates ever saw the greenhouse domes where much of their food was grown.

Ever since Spock's conviction, she had been having nightmares about this place. She shuddered to think of him locked up in such a rat hole. And now, on his very first chance to receive visitors, she was being turned away.

Seated before the pompous Commander Cho, Lauren fought to contain her frustration. "Warden, I haven't had any contact with my husband since his trial. Isn't there some way I could speak with him—even for a minute?"

"Mrs. Skint-ghee," Cho said in a condescending tone, "it's unfortunate that you came all this way for nothing. I suggest that in the future you call ahead on visiting day and check on his status."

"My name," Lauren informed him, "is Fielding." It was less unwieldy than S'chn T'gai, which even she could not pronounce correctly. "Why is my husband under disciplinary action? What is he supposed to have done?"

"He fought with another prisoner. They both sustained injuries. I'm sure you understand that we cannot tolerate that kind of behavior here."

Lauren's heart froze. If there was a fight, Spock had not instigated it. Yet now he was being treated as if he had.

"Where is he?"

"On work detail."

"He was injured and you have him working?"

The warden smiled and shook his head. "His injuries were of little consequence. Mrs. Fielding, your husband is Vulcan. A bit of labor will do him no harm."

Lauren gripped the arms of her chair. "Spock is _half_ Vulcan, Commander Cho. And he is still suffering the neurological effects of an accident that nearly took his life last summer. As his wife—as a medical doctor—I would like to know the exact nature of his injuries and what kind of work detail you have him on."

Cho leaned back and gazed at her from across his jumbled desktop. "Mrs. Fielding, your husband is going to be with us a long while. You shouldn't worry so much. We are not in the business of coddling prisoners, but neither are we in the business of brutalizing them. Our aim here is rehabilitation, and unfortunately that sometimes involves discipline."

Lauren was plenty worried; in fact, she was worried sick. "It's illegal to force him into the mines."

"The mines?" Cho seemed downright shocked by the suggestion. "Oh no, we wouldn't do that. He's out straightening up the warehouse. And as for his injuries…" he shrugged "…a little cut, a few bruises, that's all. So you see, everything is alright."

Lauren relaxed a little, but her gut instinct told her not to trust this man very far. She had not come totally unprepared. While waiting to see Cho, she had penned a quick letter. Now she handed the sealed envelope to the warden.

"Please see that my husband gets this."

"Yes, of course," Cho said agreeably, "just as soon as possible."

oooo

Somewhere during the past hours, Spock had lost track of time. At first he did not grasp the guard's meaning when he was told to "knock off and move out". Near exhaustion, he continued to push and drag at the ponderous carton he was trying to inch along the floor.

"I said stop!" the guard shouted.

Spock lost his footing and dropped to his knees. Sweat streaked down his dirty face as he clung to the crate.

"Get up, you lazy bastard! To the showers!"

Spock's legs resisted his efforts to rise. With youthful impatience the guard gripped him under one arm and roughly hauled him to his feet. Somehow Spock made it to the shower room and stripped down. The hot water soothed his aching body as he scrubbed at the layers of accumulated grime.

"Come on, come on," nagged the guard.

Spock was hurried into clean clothes and escorted to his cell. Leo was nowhere in sight. Thankful for the respite, he slumped onto his bunk and fell into a much needed sleep.

A sharp jolt awakened him. Reluctantly Spock opened his eyes. Leo loomed over his bunk and proceeded to kick it again.

"C'mon, you Vulcan son-of-a-bitch, I'm not finished with you!"

Spock sighed. Judging from Leo's level of energy, he was feeling no ill-effects from his recent injury.

Spock told him, "Even though your skull is healed, you should take care not to overexert yourself."

"Yeah," Leo retorted, "I bet you'd like me to lie down and take a nap—you with all your top brass connections. Just like this cell. Man, that really pisses me off! You think you can walk in here right off the street and have what it's taken me years to get." His gray eyes flamed with rancor as his hand swept through the stale air. "Years slaving away in that stinking mine so I can buy a little space for myself!"

Spock raised onto an elbow. "Am I to understand that you offer someone payment in exchange for more favorable living conditions?"

Leo sneered. "Don't play innocent with me. You were probably having tea and cakes with Papa Cho while I was off rotting in solitary."

"Cho did not serve me tea and cakes," Spock assured him. "I have spent the last 72 hours on work detail, and I will be very honest with you, Leo. I am too weary to care if you attack me. Go ahead, if you must, but I see no reason for it. I don't know why I was assigned this cell, but now that I am here, aren't we better off as allies instead of enemies?"

Leo's face contorted with anger. Bending over, he seized Spock by the collar and growled, "This is my territory, do you hear me? I don't need some tin-plated Vulcan hero who thinks he can grab whatever he wants!"

Spock met his gaze with an outward show of calm. "I have no intention of grabbing anything, and I might remind you that I am nothing more than a simple convict—with much less standing than you. And now, with your permission, I would very much like to rest."

Leo absorbed the words and backed off, much to Spock's relief. "Then you're saying that I'm in charge?"

"It is only logical," Spock told him. "You were here first. You are far more knowledgeable of prison ways."

At that, Spock rolled over and closed his eyes, but he did not feel sure enough of his cellmate to let himself sleep.

oooo

Elbow to elbow with Leo, Spock made his way along the meal line. It was his first time out among the general prison population, and though he found the coarseness and jostling offensive, he knew better than to show it. Reinforcing his mental barriers, he kept his eyes on the dollops of food being ladled onto his breakfast tray by prison workers. Each time he was offered a meat dish, he moved his tray out of reach.

Someone dug a knuckle into his spine and spoke very close to his ear. "Picky little girl, aren't you?"

Startled, Spock turned. A large, hairy arm knocked the tray out of his hands. Food spilled as it clattered across the floor. An expectant roar went up from nearby prisoners hoping for a fight.

"You wasteful slug!" leered Spock's attacker. The darkly bearded man thrust himself in Spock's face. "Oh, I'm gonna teach you a few manners, sweetheart…"

Spock fought down a flush of indignation. Before he would respond, Leo pushed him aside and confronted Blackbeard head-on. "Anyone touches him, answers to me! Get it?"

Blackbeard's lips curled in contempt. "No one tells _me_ what to do!"

Leo eyed him dangerously, then turned and moved Spock ahead of him. They came to the end of the line and found adjacent openings at a table. Leo placed his heaped-up tray between them and handed Spock a second fork. "Go ahead, you can share mine. Drop your food around here, and you're out of luck. Next time hold on tighter."

"Thank you," Spock said, and took the fork Leo offered. The speed at which his cellmate had gone from open adversary to grudging ally offered hope that their relationship would continue to improve—as long as Spock maintained a strictly subordinate role.

Leo shrugged and began shoveling eggs into his mouth. "There's plenty enough for both of us."

"I am not only thanking you for the food," Spock explained, "but also for coming to my assistance."

Leo grunted and shook his head. "Gotta watch some of these guys. I think Ronaldi's got it in for you, already."

"Did you say 'Ronaldi'?"

"Eat," Leo ordered.

After the uneasy meal, Leo showed Spock to Inmate Affairs before heading for his job in the mines. There, Spock was given a handbook of rules and asked his preference for a labor assignment. He had made his choice on the first day. Seated before a lieutenant's desk, he said, "I wish to work as a miner."

The lieutenant glanced up in surprise. "With your background?"

Spock gazed at him steadily.

The man called up Spock's record on his terminal and frowned at the information. "It says here that you're on neuroplex for impaired leg function." Shaking his head, he looked at Spock with a regret that seemed genuine. "I saw the limp when you came in. Sorry, but your medical history disqualifies you for mine work."

"I believe I am quite capable," Spock argued. "Perhaps on a trial basis…"

"Look," said the lieutenant, "you have to be able to move down there, and move fast. If you can't accept my decision, you can appeal directly to the warden—but I wouldn't advise it."

Spock lowered his gaze. Under no circumstances would he appeal to Commander Cho.

"Do you have any other work preference?"

Spock shook his head.

"Then I'm assigning you to the biosphere." He entered the information in the computer and pointed Spock toward a nearby transaction window. "Go over there and someone will get you started."

oooo

"Oh, crap!"

Startled by his cellmates' outburst, Spock looked up from his bunk.

Leo hurled his big frame upright and paced the confined area. "God damn it, why did you let them do that?"

Puzzled, Spock sat up and stared at him. "I do not understand."

"That's the whole trouble," Leo ranted. "You don't understand anything about this place! They show you a prime cell and you say, 'Fantastic'! They hand you a cushy job assignment and you say, 'Oh, this is freaking great'! You're so unbelievably _stupid!"_

"I gather," Spock interjected, "that the biosphere is not a desirable work site."

"Oh, _sure_ it is," Leo shot back with sarcasm, "if you're a kiss-ass or a squealer. Which one are you?"

Spock repressed a sigh. "I see. In that case, I will go back to Inmate Affairs and request a different assignment."

Leo shook his head in disgust. "Go ahead, try it. Man, you're so freaking _dumb."_

oooo

Once more Spock found himself standing before the warden's desk—this time at his own request.

"You're wasting my time," Cho said in a testy voice. "The prison manual clearly states that all work assignments are in force for six months."

"The manual also states," Spock pointed out, "that I can appeal. That is why I have come to you."

"Appeal denied!" Beads of sweat sprang out on Cho's face. Rising, he leaned forward, hands resting on his desk. "Do you think I care about your silly preferences? The only reason I'm here with you in this forsaken hole is the paycheck! If you think for one second that I give a shit about your personal problems, you're as big a fool as you seem. Now get the hell out of my sight!"

oooo

A warm, humid mist hung in the air. Day and night, moisture from the enormous planting beds condensed far overhead and trickled down the curved sides of the domes.

It was Spock's duty to seek out and repair any electrical shorts that threatened the biospheres' lighting system. Without light, the plants could not grow. When he was not high on some lift, he monitored the drainage system that recycled condensation back into the beds. When there was nothing else for him to do, he shoveled and spread the composted manure brought in daily from the chicken sheds. It would have been much simpler to use meal replicators, but these domes provided jobs for the inmates and a better quality of food.

From the very first shift, all Spock's activities were supervised by an inmate trustee who openly showed his contempt for the new convict by such comments as, "You Vulcans think you're so damn smart. Well, you can't be as smart as you think, if you got sent up like the rest of us."

Word quickly spread that Spock was working the biospheres, and now he had three strikes against him. First of all, former officers met a great deal of hostility from the inmates, who mostly came from the ranks of Starfleet's enlisted and the Border Patrol. Secondly, he was under suspicion because of his job. Last of all, was the matter of his crime. Most inmates viewed the "rebel" Kirk fondly and had nothing but contempt for a man who had turned on his captain and friend, leaving him horribly disabled.

For Spock, the most difficult part of prison life was the daily recreation period, when large segments of the population were free to socialize in a noisy hall. Invariably Blackbeard Ronaldi would watch for Leo to wander off, and then approach Spock with overt threats. There was no longer any doubt that Spock knew him. Years ago, Spock had been chosen for a jury panel by the Convening Authority in San Francisco. He was one of five service members who sat in judgment over Vito Ronaldi and found him guilty of murder. Being housed in the same prison put Spock at constant risk of attack. Sooner or later there would be violence.

Usually Spock endured Ronaldi's harassment in stony silence, but today he decided to speak bluntly. "You blame me for your imprisonment."

"Hell, yes!" Ronaldi bristled. "Why shouldn't I? And look at you now—we're wearing the same outfit. Better watch your back, baby. It's only a matter of time."

Leo made an appearance and the troublesome inmate moved on. Spock accompanied his cellmate to a viewing pane and gazed out on the desolate moonscape. Far off in the black sky hung the marbled planet that even Spock called home. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

"The wind," Leo said at last, "that's what I miss most of all. Just to feel it blowing over my skin…fresh and cool…"

"Yes," Spock said. "Earth's wind."

Accustomed as he was to the cramped interiors of starships, this bleak, stale colony was difficult to bear. Looking out, he attempted to discern North America's western coastline. A swath of clouds indicated the passage of a winter storm. _Rain. He could smell it. He could almost hear it striking the bare branches of the Japanese maple in his front garden…_

"Oh—" Leo said suddenly. "They were passing out some coms. I picked up yours."

Spock took the envelope into his hands. It was a letter—addressed to him in Lauren's own handwriting. He folded the paper and slipped it up his sleeve to open later, in the relative privacy of his cell.

"Thank you," he said.

Leo studied him curiously. "It's a woman, isn't it? I could tell by the writing." He paused. "You married?"

Spock focused once more on Earth. "Yes. I am."

After lock-up he stretched out on his bunk, straightened the plain white envelope, and carefully unsealed it. Acutely aware of Leo's eyes on him, he drew out the tidy pages Lauren had written. For a time, the prison walls faded. The words from home flowed like Leo's wind, a pleasing gust of fresh air that set him free, if only for a moment. _Had it been only ten days since he last saw her?_

Leo's voice broke Spock's concentration. "What's she like?"

Spock folded the letter, and sitting up, tucked it under his mattress.

"Your wife," Leo said, seated across from him. "Is she Vulcan? Is she pretty?"

Spock did not really wish to discuss Lauren with anyone in this place—not even Leo. But judging by the look in his cellmate's eyes, there would be no peace until he said something.

"She is human. A Starfleet doctor who specializes in medical research."

 _"_ _Starfleet!"_ Leo spat on the concrete. Rising abruptly, he went to the force field and glared out at the area denied to him. "They sent you up and she's staying in Starfleet?"

Leo's thinking took Spock by surprise. Even though he had been unjustly convicted by a Starfleet court-martial, it had never occurred to him that Lauren should resign. The evidence had weighed heavily against him.

He simply said, "My case is under appeal."

"Appeal?" Leo swung around, eyes narrowed to steely slits. "Oh, I get it. You're innocent. It's all just a big mistake and they're going to fix it in a little while."

Spock heard the clear note of sarcasm in his cellmate's voice, but there was only one possible reply. "I committed no crime."

With lightning speed Leo jerked him from the bunk and slammed him up against a wall. Pain stabbed Spock's spine and rippled down both legs.

"You think you're better than me," Leo flared, "is that it? Officers don't commit murder. No—not you, with your pretty uniform and your shiny boots and big fat officer's salary. Well, I have news for you, Captain. I was once an officer, too. I had all the things you had, including the wife. But she left me—just like yours will when she figures out that you're guilty as sin!"

Spock looked at the man and for the first time saw him clearly. Gripping Leo's muscular forearms, he forced them away from his body. "Kessler," he said. "You are Commander Leopold Kessler of the U.S.S. Ranger."

Leo was silent.

It had been nearly eight years since Kessler's case was tried, but Spock remembered every detail of the news reports. Kessler's wife had abandoned him long before the trial—for a fellow crewman whom Leo later sent on a suicide mission. Despite protests of innocence, he had received the maximum sentence.

Spock thought he saw tears forming in Leo's eyes, but the convict turned aside and retreated to his bunk. No further words passed between them that evening.

oooo

"Alright, you can sit up now."

In gray prison-issue underwear, Spock eased his legs off the examination table and sat before the Infirmary doctor. The bruises inflicted by Leo's work boots were fading; it was Spock's nervous system that drew the doctor's interest. Bending over, the gray-haired officer took a small rubber mallet and rapped Spock sharply on the knees.

Spock did not need a medical degree to know that his reflexes were inadequate. Since entering prison he had observed a slow but steady neurological deterioration. His left foot frequently went numb, and the entire leg had weakened to the point where his limp was quite pronounced. On his way here today, he had stumbled for no apparent reason.

"You're taking the neuroplex?" A medscanner hummed in the doctor's hands as he made a slow sweep over Spock's legs.

"Yes," Spock answered. As a prisoner he was not allowed to handle medications of any kind. The capsules were dispensed to him with each meal.

The scanner went still. Straightening, the doctor looked him in the eye. "Judging by your medical history, you're lucky to be alive—but I don't like the way that leg is going. I'm fitting you with a neuro-assist band."

Spock's respect for the prison physician took an upward turn. "Thank you, Doctor Madison. That will be most helpful."

Madison nodded. "You're to wear it at work and whenever that leg feels particularly weak. I'm ordering an immediate change in your job assignment. I don't want you standing up there on those lifts. I'll see you back here in a month."

oooo

Lauren could hardly contain her excitement. It seemed like a dream—a sweetly torturous dream—that she had gotten this far without some hellish bureaucratic snag stopping her. Taking a seat in a visitor's cubicle, she breathlessly awaited the prisoner's arrival.

Beyond the view pane, a door slid open. Spock entered. Catching sight of her, he briefly stopped, then limped to the chair on the other side of the partition. Lauren's eyes devoured him through the sheet of reinforced glass. After a moment she pressed her palm to the barrier. His hand rose to meet hers on the other side, but lacking physical contact, there could be no mental sharing. Nevertheless he smiled slightly, fondly, as if to encourage her. She bit her lip hard to keep tears from forming.

"How are you?" she managed to get out.

Spock removed his hand from the barrier and switched on some sort of intercom. Lauren repeated the question. If only they could touch…

"I am well," he replied, his voice filtering through a speaker.

Recently he had obtained clearance to send her a comnote—a brief, positive message reflecting none of the horrors that surely lurked in a place like this. "I'm so glad," she said, "that you got assigned to the biospheres. At least you can be around something living and growing."

His eyebrow rose fractionally. "I've been reassigned to an equipment depot at one of the mine annexes."

"What?" She gripped counter's edge with both hands. "Why? The biospheres were so much better—weren't they?"

It took an unusually long time for him to answer. "In your view, perhaps. In the view of any sane, reasonable person. But prison culture is neither sane nor reasonable. The change might actually be beneficial, but it is too soon to tell." He paused. "How are the children?"

"Fine. T'Beth returned to her work on Sydok, but I suppose she's been keeping in touch with you."

"Yes," he said. "And James?"

"Doing well enough. The twins keep asking me when you're coming home. And Simon—well, he knows the answer to that, and he's having a hard time accepting it."

Pain flared in Spock's eyes. With a grim nod, he said, "And what of Jim?"

At least here was some positive news. "Just yesterday he opened his eyes. He's moved into a light coma. His doctors report some neurological response in his hands."

When he made no comment, her mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. "I hear you've started Rehab. They're going to make a new man of you."

Spock leaned back in his chair. "If you are referring to the mandatory group counseling sessions, it seems to me that most inmates only use them to air their grievances with loud, vulgar language. I have been told that the prison officials never take the complaints seriously."

"Are the complaints valid?"

Spock considered. "I have not been here long, but I believe many are justified."

For a while neither of them spoke. Finally Lauren said, "I heard from your mother…"

Though Spock's expressions were always subtle, she knew at once that Amanda had broken the bitter news to him. On Vulcan, Sarek had legally separated their clan from the dishonor of Spock's criminal conviction. Like his brother before him, Spock was now ktorr skann—a "nameless one", dead to Vulcan, exiled forever from his home world.

Lauren's temper heated. "How could your father do such a thing?"

"It's only logical," Spock said leadenly. "It is the Vulcan way."

"It's disgraceful! Your mother believes you're innocent. Even if Sarek doesn't, he should have kept his mouth shut about it."

"Sarek's action was proper," Spock asserted. "A Vulcan must always consider the welfare of the clan."

It was no use pursuing the argument. Lauren knew from experience that Spock never spoke out against his father, no matter how deeply Sarek wounded him. Swallowing her anger, she changed the subject.

They spent the remainder of the time discussing finances. Over the years they had donated a great deal of money to worthy causes. Aside from the sum they kept banked for emergencies, they held few liquid assets. Spock had lost his salary as commandant of Starfleet Academy, and his prison wages were a mere pittance. They could manage on Lauren's income for a time, but if Spock was not released soon, there would have to be changes.

Neither of them wanted to pull Simon out of the Virginia Hatch Institute; the school was vital for the boy's musical development. Their house in San Francisco was not fully paid for, but Lauren owned a half interest in the beach house she had inherited from her grandmother, and Spock held full title to a property on Vulcan—or at least he used to. Now the deed had been turned over to Lauren as his "widow".

Spock instructed her to sell the Vulcan property, pay off their home, and bank the remainder.

"But," she objected, "that was left to you by your grandfather Skonn. It's been in your family for centuries."

"I no longer have any part in that family," he reminded her. "I can never return to Vulcan. I am legally dead."

Her heart ached for him. She hesitated, suspecting what sort of reaction her next disclosure would unleash. "I've had…offers of help. From your mother…and from mine. You know it would give them pleasure."

Spock's dark eyes held her for a long moment, during which she had ample time to regret her words.

"It would not please _me,"_ he said at last. "If you choose to accept their help anyway, do not consult me any further in these matters."

Then it was his way or else. Once more Lauren bit her lip. "Alright," she said…for now.

As she sat looking through the partition, she had to wonder how long it would be before they seriously considered staging an escape. Back on Earth they had developed a simple code in order to foil prison censors. One had only to mention the desire for a "vacation". Lauren was more than ready for a "vacation" right now. Each day of Spock's confinement had been a nightmare. Surely they had been even harder on him, locked up like an animal in this airless tank.

What if the appeal failed? And the second appeal? And the third? It would take years just working their way through the ponderous legal system.

"Spock, there has to be some way to prove your innocence. I've been wracking my brain."

He drew in a slow breath. "I confess, I have not given it much thought since my conviction. There are computers in the recreation hall programmed for legal research. I will try to get some time on—" Midsentence, the intercom shut down.

Apparently it was the prison's way of telling them their time was up. A guard moved in behind Spock. For one last moment they gazed at one another, then he rose and was led away.

oooo

Today the recreation hall was particularly noisy. Alert to his surroundings, Spock stood a short distance from the computers, watching for one to come available. Leo had joined a fellow gang member at a handball court. Rival gangs of inmates roamed among the other diversions, their rough speech peppered with obscenities.

Finally, a computer opened. Spock limped toward it, only to find his way blocked by Vito Ronaldi.

The hulking convict broke into a predatory grin. "Where you goin'?"

"That," Spock coldly informed him, "is none of your concern." He attempted to move around him, but Ronaldi sidestepped right back into his path.

"I hear you're wearing some kind of medical gadget just to walk. What's the matter—good old Luna doesn't agree with you?"

Spock had learned that some convicts only understood blunt language. He said, "I strongly suggest that you get the hell out of my way."

 _"_ _What?"_ Ronaldi seemed torn between amusement and anger. "What did you say to me?"

Spock saw no reason to repeat his words.

Ronaldi glanced over his shoulder at a monitor camera, then jabbed a finger in the middle of Spock's chest. "You're gonna pay for that! Your ass is mine—do you hear? Your Vulcan ass is mine!"

Spock brushed the hand aside and went to the computer. Ronaldi followed. Gripping the back of Spock's chair, he whispered, "What's the matter, bigshot? Scared? You oughta be."

Spock felt his anger rising. Slowly, deliberately, he swiveled the chair around and gazed up at his persistent tormentor. He immediately noticed that Ronaldi's torso was blocking the monitor.

"I told you to get the _hell_ out of my way," Spock reminded him. Abruptly he caught hold of Ronaldi's jumpsuit and, swallowing his distaste, seized the juncture of the man's neck.

Ronaldi tried to fight back. His dark eyes widened in astonishment, then panic, as he discovered he could not move. Spock gradually increased the pressure until Ronaldi's knees began to shake. Then he released him.

The convict's face darkened with rage. Cursing fluently, he struggled to regain his strength before staggering away.

For the moment, it was over. But only for the moment.

oooo

In the darkness of his cell, Spock shut out the sound of restless prisoners and attempted to meditate. The continuing confrontations with Ronaldi were deeply troubling, and he had found nothing in the legal library to offer hope for an early release. Closing his eyes, he worked to clear his mind of the day's discord. Restive thoughts skittered through the fringes of his consciousness. _Memories…dreams…fears._

His Vulcan strength was not without its limits. The drastic changes in his life were taxing his ability to adjust. Week by week he felt the wearying pull of prison dragging him down to its own vulgar level.

Must he compromise his values in order to survive? If he were to be of use to his family, he _must_ survive. But what help could he offer his family here?

Spock gave up trying to meditate and thought instead of his court-martial. Once again he went over the damning details of the computer evidence that convicted him. Ironclad. Indisputable. In the eyes of Starfleet and the Federation, he was guilty of attempting a cold-blooded murder.

Pulling up his blanket, he rolled onto his side. At night the pain in his legs always grew sharper and more difficult to control. Now he gratefully embraced the discomfort, letting it distract him from the bitter pangs of loneliness and discouragement. Eventually he drifted off to sleep.

Sometime later he bolted upright from a vivid dream about his brother Sybok. His mind reeled from the revelation he had received. "Of course!" he said aloud.

Across the cell, Leo stirred and mumbled drowsily. "You say something?"

Barely containing his excitement, Spock said, "The toxin must still be affecting my mental processes, or I would have seen it long before now."

Leo grunted in annoyance. "You had a nightmare. Shut up and go to sleep."

Wordlessly Spock lay back, but he slept no more.


	5. Changing a Mind

**5: Changing a Mind**

In the midst of an arpeggio, the violin screeched to a sudden sour halt. There followed an ominous clatter and a curse that carried all the way downstairs.

Lauren dropped what she was doing and rushed up to her son's room. Simon stood beside his bed, the neck of his violin clutched in one hand. Her eyes traveled across the room and found the broken plaster where his bow had hit the wall.

"What in the world?" she gasped.

Simon hurled the violin at his bed. The expensive instrument bounced off the quilt and landed on the carpeted floor.

"I hate it, I hate it!" he screamed.

Lauren's heart pounded. She had not seen him so out of control since he was a toddler. At those times Spock had always been the one to handle him, to calm him in Vulcan ways only he and Simon fully understood. Now she would have to deal with it.

"Stop," she said in a shaky voice. "Stop it right now and tell me what's wrong."

His face contorted with childish rage. "Why'd he have to do it? Now he's gone and I hate him! He's nothing but a jailbird!"

Suddenly Lauren was furious, too. How dare he speak like that about his father? Stepping up to the boy, she lashed her hand across his cheek. Simon staggered back, eyes wide open with shock. Reddish blood trickled from his nose and dripped onto his shirt before he could catch it. Clutching his face, he ran out into the hall.

Lauren heard the bathroom door slam. From downstairs came a spurt of squeals and crying. The twins were fighting again. Lately, it was all they seemed to do. Feeling overwhelmed, she closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out and ran unchecked down her face. _What was happening to_ _her? To all of them?_

After a moment she went downstairs and separated Teresa and James. Then wiping at her own tears, she went back after Simon. It took some doing to get him to unlock the door, but at last he opened it to her. Gone was the defiance. Hanging his head with shame, Simon stood before her—a handprint on his cheek, a bloodied towel in his hands.

"Mom, I'm sorry…" he whimpered.

Lauren pulled him into her arms and held him close. "I'm sorry, too, honey. I shouldn't have slapped you. I just lost my temper."

Simon sobbed. "Some of the kids—they're so mean. They say he's a no-good lying murderer."

Lauren drew back and searched those anguished blue eyes that looked so like his father's. "But you _know_ he didn't hurt Jim—don't you?" Simon was silent. "Honey, don't you?"

He sniffed and nodded. "Father was going to teach me things. Vulcan things. But now he's gone and he's not coming back."

She pushed the dark, wavy hair off his forehead and hugged him. Simon would be almost thirty when Spock served out his full sentence. She would be well past her prime. The very idea made her feel like throwing things.

"Why'd it have to happen?" Simon cried. "Why?"

Lauren could only hold him and wonder.

That night she lay worrying far into the night. An insistent chiming awakened her even before the twins were up. Groggy, she rolled over and grabbed her wrist phone off the bedside table.

"Lauren?" Spock's voice came over the little speaker.

Adrenaline shot like fire through her veins, and she was upright, eyes wide open. Daylight streamed through the windows as she stared at the little static-washed image in prison garb. Spock had never called on a direct link before. Despite poor reception quality from the prison's outmoded equipment, Starfleet charged dearly for it.

"Yes," she said. "It's me."

"Listen closely," he told her. "I believe we have been approaching the problem of evidence from the wrong direction. It may be that the scans were not altered—but rather, the memories of the two alleged witnesses."

As Lauren's sleep-deprived brain wrestled with the idea, Spock continued in what was, for him, a highly excited state. "I have been puzzling over the fact that Henson and Kona did not immediately come forward to report me. Now I believe I know why. They delayed because their initial memories of the incident differed from what they later recalled."

Lauren held the wrist phone tightly. "But how can that be?"

"Even hypnosis would not account for it, but it is well within the power of a Vulcan to alter another's memory. The technique is called "mind-changing".

"A Vulcan! But who? What Vulcan would do such an immoral thing—and why?"

Spock's expression became grave. "Take the information I have given you to Commander Carmichael. Advise him to check on the whereabouts of former Starfleet cadet T'Naisa Brandt."

"Brandt! Of course!" The half-Vulcan had blamed Spock for her expulsion from the academy, and vowed to make him pay. Armed with an antique pistol, she had done her best to carry out that threat. The last Lauren had heard, she was incarcerated at a psychiatric treatment center in Canada. But that had been more than a year ago. "I'll talk to Carmichael this morning," she promised. "I knew you'd come up with the answer!"

Spock shook his head in self-reproach. "If I had been thinking clearly, I would have 'come up with' this long before now. I apologize."

Lauren gazed back at him and smiled for the first time in weeks. "Apology accepted."

oooo

The ventilation at Mine Annex 2 was particularly poor. The air stank of drilling fumes and humanoid sweat. There were other, fouler odors that suggested the workers sometimes relieved themselves in any convenient corner of the shaft. They probably had no other choice.

The more Spock saw of this prison, the more it dismayed him. No one—regardless of their crime—should be made to live out their days in such conditions.

His shift was drawing to a close. Spock heard the miners' carts humming along with their loads of weary laborers. One by one the carts emerged into the harsh light of the annex. For a time Spock and his fellow clerk were kept busy handling equipment that the miners heaped on the counter. Everything had to be accounted for, right down to the boots like those Leo had once used to kick him. It was a clerk's job to see that nothing walked out, but the guards stationed here made little effort to maintain order. In the rush to the showers anything was possible.

Gradually the mob at the counter thinned. Spock left his co-worker and began shelving the grimy collection of equipment in the storage shed behind him. His leg functioned well enough with the aid of the assist band, but as he worked deep within the shed an unexpected sound drew his attention and he turned too quickly.

Menacing eyes glittered at him from the shadows. Already off-balance, Spock saw Ronaldi coming and lacked even enough time to raise his hands. The convict's fist struck his jaw and they landed on the concrete together.

Spock reached toward Ronaldi's pinch point, but received a fierce chop on his forearm. Then they were wrestling in silence. Using a Vulcan Asumi technique, Spock separated from the determined man and attempted to rise, but his leg buckled. Ronaldi landed atop him, fists swinging.

Spock took another hard blow to the face. He tasted blood. Struggling to restrain his attacker, he reached out once more, fingers extended toward Ronaldi's neck. With remarkable strength the human resisted him.

"Do not force me to hurt you," Spock warned through clenched teeth.

The convict swore a filthy oath implicating Spock's mother. Employing a clever tactic, Ronaldi reared back, evaded Spock's touch, and flipped him. Spock abruptly found himself face down on the grimy floor, his right arm pinned in a hammerlock. With a grunt of exertion, Blackbeard straddled him. Determined fingers gripped the back of Spock's collar and twisted hard. Spock dug at the cloth cutting into his throat, but was unable to get a finger-hold. Now he had no choice but to hurt the man, and hurt him badly.

Ronaldi increased the agonizing pressure on Spock's arm and twisted his collar tighter. Reaching out blindly with his right foot, Spock found a shelf support. Bracing himself, he used that foot and the arm under him to thrust his body to one side. The move caught Blackbeard by surprise; losing his grip on Spock, he fell off.

Spock reared up, caught an outstretched arm, and efficiently delivered a spiral fracture. Ronaldi's scream of agony echoed through the annex. Clutching his useless limb, he rolled on the ground, cursing even more fluently.

Spock got to his feet and wiped the blood off his face. Though he had no pity for Ronaldi, one did not make charges against a fellow inmate. "Keep silent," he advised, "and I may be able to save us both some trouble."

"Why would you help me!" Ronaldi spat.

"Because it is the only way I can help myself," Spock answered honestly.

A pair of security guards arrived with phasers drawn, and took in the scene.

"What happened here?" barked one of them.

Spock had his answer prepared. "This inmate has sustained an injury. It is most unfortunate, as he was not authorized to be in the shed."

"Is that so?" The guard cast the downed man an unsympathetic glance. "Cho will hear about this. And as for you, Vulcan…" He regarded Spock with open suspicion. "I have a feeling you're in this right up to your pointy ears."

Ronaldi gave Spock a murderous glare. "Damn you to hell! You're going to pay for this, you freaking squealer!"

Spock calmly turned to the guards. "Is it really necessary to bring this incident to the warden's attention? No serious harm was done, but there are bound to be awkward questions."

"Yeah, you can count on it," chuckled the second guard. "Cho will want to ask you a good question or two." Holstering his phaser, he reached down and helped Ronaldi to his feet.

"Actually," Spock said, "I was thinking of you. When Warden Cho finds out, he will want to know how this man slipped your notice and entered a restricted area."

The guard's smile disappeared. Cho's men were not fond of being outwitted by any prisoner, particularly one whom they held in special contempt. No more was said as they led Ronaldi away.

oooo

The vid-screen was playing as Spock removed his neuro-assist band for the night. Seated on the bunk that served as both chair and bed, he leaned over and rubbed the aching, tingling muscles of his calf. The movement sent pain darting through the arm Ronaldi had wrenched in a hammerlock.

Leo watched, his eyes returning again and again to the livid bruises on Spock's face. At last he said, "Well, are you going to tell me about it?"

Spock looked over at his cellmate. Leo had been near the annex when Ronaldi was taken away. He had heard the ominous scream and knew Spock was involved. No doubt he had also heard the wild rumors circulating among the inmates—a wildly imaginative version of the toolshed encounter.

"It's not true what they're saying, is it?" His brows drew together. "You didn't really try and…"

"Try what?" Spock asked wearily, as if he did not know.

"Well… _some_ of these guys do."

Very quietly Spock told Leo what had happened. "It's no wonder," he finished, "that men come to behave as animals when living under these abysmal conditions."

Leo clasped his work-worn hands between his thighs and stared at them. "I've seen people go insane here."

Spock did not doubt it. After rubbing his leg a moment longer, he sat back and studied his pensive cellmate. Despite the abrasiveness of most convicts, he was coming to regard many of them with compassion. But for Leo, he felt something more—a burgeoning friendship.

Reaching a decision he said, "We should attempt to improve our lot."

Leo's head came up. "How? Kill ourselves? That's been done, too."

Spock hesitated. It had always been his practice to make himself useful in every circumstance. Since his first day of incarceration, he had been analyzing Luna's environment. "No, Leo. My solution would bring life, not death. It would bring a possibility for humane treatment."

Leo shook his head at such an impossibility. "Spock, you're talking about heaven."

"I do not believe in an afterlife." Rising, Spock raised the vid-screen's volume before sitting down beside Leo. Kessler shifted uneasily at the invasion of his space, but he did not curse or strike out as he once would have. Speaking low, Spock said, "There may be a way to make this life more tolerable."

Leo's gray eyes rose up and searched him. "You're kidding."

"Vulcans do not 'kid'," Spock replied. "This prison is supported almost entirely by its mining operation. Without it, the cost of maintaining life support to the colony would be prohibitive. That is why Starfleet has made mining jobs so attractive. The prison's very existence depends on a steady flow of rare earth minerals."

Leo's face lit with understanding. "You're saying…the power is in our hands, and always has been."

Spock nodded. "Yes. Quite literally. And since we are the ones perpetuating the system, we must be the ones to change it. Organize a miners' strike and the colony will soon be paralyzed. Hold our ground and it will be forced to close."

"But what if they bring in workers from the outside?"

"Not at prison wages," Spock pointed out. "To work under these conditions, any strike-breakers would have to be generously paid. Starfleet could not afford it for any length of time."

Leo's eyes began to glow. "There'd be trouble."

"Most assuredly. But according to Federation law, no prisoner can be forced to work."

Leo grinned and clapped Spock on the shoulder. Leaping up, he raised his arms above his head and let out a shout of pure joy.

oooo

Lauren was shocked by her husband's appearance. Spock's face bore several deep bruises; another began at his throat and disappeared under his collar. Words burst from her as she leaned toward the barrier separating them. "Look at you! What's happened now?"

"A minor exchange," Spock replied. "It is of no importance. Have you any news of Miss Brandt?"

Shaking off her worry, Lauren told him the exciting update. "Yes, listen to this! T'Naisa Brandt was released from treatment last spring and she hasn't reported to her parole officer in six months. Carmichael has an investigator working on it."

Spock seemed so pleased that Lauren hesitated to move on to other, less pleasant news. But the truth could not be kept from him. "I've…I've taken Simon out of school—just for a while, until we see how the investigation goes."

She saw the protest in his eyes.

He said, "If it is because of the expense…"

"No. It's not that." It was hard telling him the real reason. "You know how cruel children can be. Spock, he can't cope with that, and…and neither can I." Shamefaced, she admitted, "The other day I got so upset that I slapped him. He was out of control, but then so was I. My God, I made his nose bleed. It made me feel like I was turning into my father."

For a moment Spock just looked at her. Then gently he said, "Lauren, your father was an abusive alcoholic. You are not anything like him. Perhaps you were wrong to strike Simon, but stress sometimes makes us behave in undesirable ways. I am sure Simon realizes that you did not mean to act so harshly."

She nodded, grateful for his understanding and support. After ten years of marriage the bond between them remained a precious mystery. There were so many differences in their backgrounds, their natures, their outlooks—yet in other ways they were very much alike. In their dedication to their respective scientific fields, in their love of music, and in the darkness of certain memories they held in common. As youngsters, they had both been mistreated by adults in positions of authority. That was the single most shocking secret Spock had ever revealed to her. Child abuse. In one of Vulcan's finest families.

Though she and Spock both believed in firm discipline, she did not want either of them to end up acting like her father, or Spock's great-grandfather Solkar. She needed Spock's help with the children. She needed him home.

"I detest this place," she said fervently. The dismal sights and smells; the echoing prison sounds. Everywhere she looked today, there were armed guards roaming. "What's going on around here, anyway? It looks like they're expecting an invasion."

Spock's reply was carefully worded. "Do not be alarmed, but there is rumor of an insurrection."

Lauren's heart lurched. "What? You mean a prison riot?"

"No," he answered with reassuring calm, "not a riot. Many of the miners have failed to report for work. Yesterday I saw only five at my annex. The number is decreasing every day. Starfleet is understandably nervous."

Lauren searched his impassive face and knew he was holding back. Something told her that he was right in the middle of the unrest. "Please," she implored, "be careful."

Sadness touched his eyes as he said, "I want you to be prepared. My visiting privileges may soon be revoked."

She did not need to ask him why. He was involved, alright. Pressing her hand against the cool transparent barrier, she said, "I love you."

"Aisha," he spoke softly, and touched his fingertips to the other side.

Lauren noticed that his nails were broken, the cuticles imbedded with the mine dirt that never fully washed away. She swallowed against a sudden aching in her throat. She felt torn by concern over his physical safety and the equally disturbing neurological deterioration that made it necessary for him to wear an assist band. What was this place doing to him?

She said, "I managed to get a look at your medical record. There's a lot you haven't been telling me."

"I saw no reason to needlessly worry you."

"Needless?" All she could do was shake her head. She wanted him out of here. Today. _Now._

"How is Jim?" he asked, as always.

Lauren pulled her hand off the window. "He's finally out of the coma—talking up a storm. His doctors think they'll have him up in a grav-chair soon."

Relief clearly showed on Spock's face. "That is good news."

She nodded and lowered her eyes. "I…talked to him about the accident. He doesn't remember a thing."

"That is hardly surprising," Spock said matter-of-factly.

Lauren glanced up. "He asked me…to have you come visit. I didn't know what to say."

"They have not told him."

She met Spock's gaze. And then and there, she decided to tell Jim herself.


	6. Faces of Anger

**6: Faces of Anger**

Spock was thinking of Captain Kirk when he finished his shift at the annex. There had been little to do today, but think. Only three workers had ventured into the mine, so he had spent most of his time cleaning and reorganizing the equipment shed. His work completed, he left with his fellow clerk and walked the dingy passageways that led to the miners' shower. As usual, the other prisoner avoided his company and pulled far ahead. Turning into the final corridor, Spock found himself alone.

He stopped, all senses alert. In the distance he heard sounds of showering men—running water, voices, laughter. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary, yet his pulse quickened as if he had. Up by the shower entrance a single guard stepped into view. Spock recognized him immediately from the day he broke Ronaldi's arm.

"You there!" the guard shouted. "Get moving!"

Spock limped toward the showers. He had gone only two steps when a dark shape leapt from a storage room on his right. A thick arm clamped around his neck and yanked him out of the corridor. The dimly lit room reeked of sweat and tobacco. As Spock fought to throw off his unseen attacker, the door clicked shut. Half a dozen men emerged from the shadows.

Aware of his danger, Spock began to struggle harder, but the pressure on his throat increased. Blackbeard Ronaldi walked up, just out of kicking range, and smiled.

"Well, hello there," he said softly. "Remember me?"

Spock felt the constricted blood pounding in his head as the other men restrained his arms and legs. Blackbeard moved in and touched his face with a filthy, calloused hand. The prisoners jeered in crude words that left no doubt as to their violent intent.

The guard at the shower room must have seen him taken. Help should have been here by now…unless that guard had no intention of stopping this.

Spock's stomach turned with loathing and he resisted with all his might, but there were too many of them, their muscles hardened by the mines. The evil thrust of their thoughts washed over him as the blows began.

oooo

Jim Kirk was working his eyes, counting the slightly out-of-focus dimples on the ceiling when a pair of visitors walked into his hospital room. From long habit he tried to sit up…and barely succeeded in raising his head from the pillow.

"Lauren…Simon!" he said, fighting the strange heaviness of limbs that kept him from jumping up to greet them the way he wanted.

Smiling gorgeously, Lauren came to his bedside. Spock's son gave him a hug and pressed something round and hard into his nearly useless hand.

"What's that?" Kirk asked.

Simon helped him lift his arm high enough to see the scuffed, grass-stained baseball.

"Just try and hold it," the boy said. "Squeeze it a little, if you can. Mom says it'll help."

Kirk tried to tighten his fingers around the ball. It required a ridiculous amount of effort. "I bet you mom's right. Thanks, kiddo."

Lauren caught his eye and said, "So, how are you feeling today?"

"Like Rip Van Winkle. What an idiotic thing to happen. Spock warned me to be more careful…" He broke off. It was frustrating and pointless to keep going over the accident that had landed him here. Things were already depressing enough.

"Speaking of Spock…" he began over again. No sooner was the name out of his mouth, and there it came. The _look._ By now he had come to expect it—that weird veil that fell over everyone's face at the very mention of his Vulcan friend.

Kirk's stomach tightened. "What is it? What aren't they telling me?"

Tears brimmed in Lauren's eyes. Simon glanced at his mother and turned aside.

Kirk looked hard at Lauren. "You told me he's recovered. Then where is he? Why doesn't he ever come? He blames me for the accident, is that it?"

"No," she said, "of course not." She whispered something in Simon's ear and he left the room. Her eyes settled on Kirk, as blue and troubled as a storm-tossed sea. In a shaky voice she said, "Spock is in prison."

If Kirk had not seen her stricken face, he would have taken it for some sort of joke. Even so, he could not bring himself to believe it. _"Spock?_ _In prison?_ You're kidding me. What did he do, forget to file his Vulcan tax return?"

Lauren sat beside him on the bed and bowed her head. "He's at the Luna Correctional Facility. Twenty years. Twenty miserable years for a crime he didn't commit."

Kirk's mind swam. _Spock sent up to the Colony?_ Only the most violent of criminals went there. Thugs, deviants, murderers. What in hell was he supposed to have done?

"How?" he gasped. "How can that possibly be?"

Lauren drew a deep breath and turned to him. A tear was rolling down her cheek. "They said that Spock tried to kill you. They said it wasn't an accident—that he'd been after you for years. Because of T'Beth."

Kirk felt the blood rush and tingle through his recovering arms. Heedless of how far his angry voice carried, he shouted, "That's ridiculous! That's the biggest pack of lies I've ever heard in my entire life! Who are the numbskulls who tried the case? Give me their names! Get me the transcripts of—"

The door hissed open. A frowning, determined nurse ordered Lauren out of the room and descended on Kirk. Furious, he tried to fend off the sprayhypo of sedative, but his arm twitched impotently. His fingers lost their tenuous grip on Simon's baseball and it rolled onto the floor. Then the drug found his brain and his struggles ceased.

oooo

Spock awoke face-down, awash with pain. The floor felt cool and gritty beneath his cheek as he lay perfectly still, listening to the silence. Apparently they were gone now. They had done what they came to do—beat him senseless—and then moved on to other pastimes. He supposed that he should be thankful to be alive.

Slowly, cautiously, he tested his limbs and appraised his throbbing abdomen before sitting up. There was a possibility of some internal injury, but his dense Vulcan bones seemed unbroken. With an effort he worked his way into a standing position, left the storeroom, and limped the short distance to the shower room. This time of evening, it was deserted. He looked on the laundry shelf for the clean clothes that should have been there. Predictably, his were missing.

Stripping down, he washed away the dirt and blood. For a time, he leaned his hands on the tiled wall and let the hot water run over him while he worked to control the physical discomfort. Like humans, the Vulcan race had its own mechanisms to protect the mind from traumatic events. As the shower poured down, Spock felt himself retreating from the brutal, humiliating encounter and did not resist it. As he dried off and dressed in his dirty jumpsuit, he set his thoughts on other things. The miners' strike. The color of Lauren's eyes. The sound of his children's voices.

Halfway to the cellblock, Spock was approached by the very guard who saw him pulled into the storeroom.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he haughtily demanded. "Why aren't you at dinner?"

A spurt of anger broke through Spock's thin control and briefly flared from his eyes. The guard stepped back and drew his phaser. A short time later Spock found himself in the warden's officer. Despite the discomfort in his abdomen, he forced himself to stand very straight.

Cho eyed his filthy, bloodstained clothes and battered face with disdain. "What is this? What have you done now?"

"I have done nothing," Spock replied. "A gang assaulted me near the miner's shower."

The warden targeted the guard. "You said nothing about a gang assault."

"There wasn't any," the guard responded. "He's lying. He started a fight and got licked."

Cho eyed the cuts and bruises on Spock's stony face. "You are a liar. You've been fighting and are afraid of being punished. Who was it? Kessler again?"

"Kessler was not involved," Spock answered.

"Then who?"

Spock turned his head toward the guard and said, "I believe this man can tell you."

Coolly meeting his eyes, the guard declared, "I have no idea what he's talking about."

Cho rose suddenly, his eyes flaming at Spock. "I'm having enough trouble these days without putting up with the likes of you! Do you think prison is hard? Well, I'll make it harder. I'll make it so damn hard that you'll wish you'd been born dead!"

Grabbing a slip of paper, he slashed out an order and tossed it to the guard. "Work detail—72 hours! When he's finished, bring him straight here to me."

oooo

Lauren entered the spotless blue sanctuary of Admiral Morrow's office, took the seat that was pointed out to her, and squarely met his stern eyes. Instinct told her that she had been summoned about Spock. Last evening something had gone terribly wrong with her husband. Though she continued to sense a disturbance in their bond, the prison was not giving out any information.

"Admiral," she said at once, "what's happened to Spock?"

Morrow leaned back in his leather chair and stroked his graying moustache. "That's a question a lot of people are asking. If you're referring to what happened yesterday, it seems he got involved in another fight. The warden put him on a 72 hour work detail—but that's not why I called you here."

 _Another fight?_ Lauren strongly suspected there was more to it, this time.

Morrow's voice took on an unmistakable tone of reprimand. "I understand you visited Captain Kirk yesterday. Frankly, Doctor, I never expected that you would set aside the welfare of a sick man in favor of your own personal agenda. Do you have any idea what a state Kirk is in?"

"You bet I do," she retorted. "He's furious, and with good reason. They say the truth never hurt anyone, and in Jim's case it's lit a fire under him that should do wonders to speed up his recovery. You can log that as my professional— _and_ personal—opinion."

Morrow's eyes flashed. "I didn't ask for your opinion. Your behavior in this matter has left me deeply disappointed. I've bent over backwards to help your family through this difficult time. You're a doctor—you should know better than to upset a patient in Kirk's tenuous condition."

"I am Spock's wife," Lauren declared with a lift of her chin. "I'm Jim's friend."

He shook his head in exasperation. "You just don't see it, do you?"

"See what? Spock's guilt? No, Admiral, I don't—and _I'm_ frankly disappointed that you've written off my husband so easily. Have you any idea what the conditions are like in that prison?"

"'Prison' is the key word here. Luna's not one of those posh civilian penal resorts like Tantalus 5, and it's not meant to be. There's a reason why people don't want to go there. It's no fun. But even so…" his anger cooled a little. "I've done what I could to make Spock's situation…a bit more tolerable."

"Such as?"

"Such as getting him in a less crowded cell, with a fellow officer. Such as setting him up for a decent work assignment."

"The biospheres?"

As Morrow proudly nodded, Lauren held back an urge to yell at him. "Admiral, there is nothing decent about Luna, and as for the biospheres, Spock has long since been assigned other work—due to the debilitating effect of prison life on his neurological system." She paused to draw a breath. "Did you know that he's back to wearing a neuro-assist band? Of course, seeing that you believe he developed those medical problems while trying to murder Kirk, you probably think he deserves to end up in a grav-chair."

Morrow's dark brow furrowed. Placing his hands on the desk, he leaned toward her. "I don't wish your family any harm. You're upset, Doctor Fielding, and it's only natural. But we can't have you infecting a man in Jim Kirk's condition with your worries. I'm sorry, but you are hereby restricted from any contact with him until further notice."

Knowing what that would mean to Jim, she said, "I'm sorry, too, Admiral. Real sorry."

oooo

Hate. It was, perhaps, the only thing that kept Spock going. Ripe and rich and thriving, it moved him from carton to carton, from hour to hour of mindless, back-wrenching labor in the musty depths of the warehouse. It was easy to despise someone as small-minded as Cho. It was still easier to despise the lying, hard-hearted guard who had betrayed him and ridiculed him all the way to the warehouse. Easiest of all was the loathing he felt for Vito Ronaldi, who had battered him with such sadistic pleasure.

Perhaps later the blessed numbness would return, or he would rediscover some Vulcan technique to reason away the brutality he had experienced. But for now there was only hate, gnawing away like a sickness at the sore pit of his stomach, nourishing him, sustaining him.

At the end of 72 grueling hours, Spock limped, sweat-drenched and filthy, into the warden's office. Cho offered the guard a seat, but left Spock standing while he made a show of attending to the business on his desk. Minutes ticked by, half an hour, then an hour as Spock shifted his weight from one exhausted, tingling leg to the other. Twice his left knee started to give way, but he caught himself and stood tall.

At last Cho condescended to look at him. "So you're back. Have you had enough, then? Or do I need to keep you busy?"

Spock swallowed the bile of rage. "It is enough, sir."

Cho's glistening eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm not here to coddle you sons-of-bitches! The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be!" He flapped his hand, as if swatting away a bothersome insect. "Get him out of here!"

In the main shower room, Spock washed himself and donned fresh clothes before heading to his cell. It was evening and the cellblock was noisy. A flurry of scoffing targeted him as he walked beside the guard. He kept his eyes forward. On his left something hurled toward him and crackled against a cell's force field. Ignoring it, he kept moving.

At last he reached the haven of cell 343. Collapsing onto his bunk, he turned his face to the wall. His thoughts raced wildly and his emotions surged out of control. His body cried out its need for a healing trance, but he dared not surrender to it here. Closing his eyes, he struggled to recall the simplest of Vulcan mind rules.

He heard Leo get up.

"You okay?" his cellmate asked solicitously, and touched him on the shoulder.

"Leave me alone!" Spock snapped. Ashamed of his weakness, he curled in on himself

Leo hung back. His softly spoken words were all but swallowed by the prison racket. "I know—the word's out. That bastard Ronaldi took you down. But don't tell Cho—don't say anything, man, or next time you're dead. Understand? That's how it works."

"Go away," Spock warned.

Leo took a blanket from his own bedding and covered him. "Try and get some sleep. You'll feel better." As he went back to his bunk, he added, "From now on we stay together as much as possible."

In the depths of the night Spock had sometimes heard inmates weep with loneliness and despair. But tonight, after lights-out, the cellblock was unusually still. Bone-weary, he lay fighting his body's continuing demand for healing and the descent of his mind toward chaos. As tears welled, unseen, a whisper came out of the darkness.

"Spock. You asleep?"

Spock wiped a sleeve over his eyes and forced the tightness in his throat to relax. "What do you want, Leo?"

"You're innocent, aren't you? I mean…you really _were_ falsely convicted. You don't belong here."

Spock's mouth curled into a bitter smile. The tender muscles at his middle twitched and he almost laughed out loud. "No one belongs here."

"No one? Not even Ronaldi?"

The very name brought a fresh eruption of hatred. Spock drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I do not believe the men are so vile when they first come here. In time, this place corrupts them. Even the warden and his staff have become insensitive."

"And you?" Leo questioned.

Spock spoke from the turmoil in his heart. "I came here convicted of trying to murder a man for whom I would give my life. Now, there are those here whom I would like very much to kill."

Silence fell over the cell, but it was a long while before Spock finally succumbed to sleep.

oooo

Spock soon grew aware of how seriously Leo was taking his self-appointed role of guardian. Ever-present, ever-watchful, Leo seemed determined to make sure that no one harmed Spock, and that Spock did no harm to himself.

How strange it seemed. When Ronaldi had first accosted Spock in the meal line, Leo bluntly threatened the convict. _"Anyone touches him, answers to me."_ Yet twice this week Leo had pulled Spock from the brink of tearing Ronaldi limb from limb.

"No, Spock!" Leo had hissed today. "There are other ways, my friend—ways that won't bring Cho down on you. Leave it to me—we'll get him."

And so once more Spock had curbed his roiling emotions and let the gloating convict go, but only after delivering a taste of pain that left Ronaldi white-faced and retching. And his was not the only incident of violence in the prison. Tension was running high among the inmates, most of whom were now spending up to 22 hours a day in their cells. The only men still willing to work were those in the essential supportive services. Due to the unrest, all visiting and com privileges had been revoked. Only those prisoners who tended to their jobs were allowed recreation. Though Spock doubted the legality of the restrictions, there was no way to appeal for help when even the prison chaplain had been denied access out of "safety concerns".

Many of the men had grown discouraged by the reprisals. There were those who complained that the miners' strike was only bringing additional hardship. Each day Cho came up with new ways of demoralizing the strikers. Now he had begun conducting unannounced strip searches of inmates and their cells. Any unapproved belongings were confiscated and the owners promptly punished.

One day as they watched Cho's men pillaging a nearby cell, Leo had whispered to Spock, "I bet he wishes floggings were still legal."

Repelled by the warden's cruelty, Spock had turned away. He came face to face with his image in the cell's mirror panel, and hardly recognized himself. It was not so much the physical changes—faded prison jumpsuit, overgrown hair—but the dark look burning deep in his eyes. The look of anger.

That evening he was seated on Leo's bunk, playing a game of poker with his cellmate, when an ominous clatter of bootsteps approached along the catwalk. Their force field disengaged. Flanked by guards, Cho entered the cell, an antique police baton cradled in his pudgy hands.

"Prisoners at attention!" commanded a guard.

Spock exchanged a glance with Leo. Together they put down their cards and rose.

Cho slapped the baton against his open palm as he eyed them. "Stories have a way of circulating through prisons. Some say that you two are at the heart of all this commotion." Pretending to be disappointed in them, he clicked his tongue. "Leo, Leo, and my feisty Vulcan friend. You have nothing better to do than sit all day making trouble?"

Neither of them responded.

Cho waved his baton toward the entrance. "Outside, both of you!"

Spock and Leo watched from the catwalk as the guards descended on their cell, scattering the humble contents of their shelves, tearing their bedding apart. One guard flipped Spock's mattress aside. Spock saw com letters from friends and family disappear into the man's pocket. A moment later there was some sort of pouch in his hand.

"Warden!" the guard called. "Look at this!"

With a sinking feeling, Spock watched Cho open the strange packet and cautiously examine its contents. A slow, satisfied smile spread over the warden's face.

Cho turned to Spock. "Well, well, well. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen the mention of this in your medical records. It looks as if your appetite for illicit drugs has returned."

Spock stared at the pouch, his heard pounding. It had been many years since medical treatment for a terminal disease left him temporarily dependent on Saurian strardus. The drug had probably helped save his life. Though the addiction had been unpleasant, he had eventually overcome it and never used strardus again.

"That does not belong to me," he asserted, knowing its futility even as he spoke.

Cho sealed the packet closed and held it up for Spock to see. "Not yours? I suppose those coms are also not yours?" He turned. "Guard—bring them here."

Spock held himself still as Cho opened an envelope from Lauren and read aloud words meant only for his eyes.

"She says 'Spock'," Cho pointed out. "That's your name, isn't it? Aren't you her husband?"

Spock saw no reason to state the obvious. Just now he dared not speak. One word and he might lash out, cursing the pompous martinet…or worse.

Cho thrust the coms and the drug pouch into his pocket. "These will be used as evidence. Guards, bring the prisoner along."

"Wait!" Leo stepped forward. "It's not his, Warden. The stuff's mine. I put it there."

Spock's slanted brow shot up and he stared at Leo. In all their time together he had never seen any indication that his cellmate used drugs. Even if the drugs did belong to Leo, Spock found it difficult to believe that he would hide them under any mattress but his own.

"Spock, it's true," Leo said convincingly. "I only used it when you weren't around."

Cho seemed shaken by Leo's admission—so shaken, that Spock felt reasonably certain the warden was involved in a frame-up. Now Leo had disrupted the warden's plan by confessing.

Cho collected himself and admonished Leo, "Then you will be the one to pay!"

The warden grudgingly returned Spock's coms to him. As Spock watched Leo walk away, he wondered if his friend truly believed him innocent of drug use. It was astonishing that Leo had taken the blame; a charge of drug possession could add years to an inmate's sentence.

Alone now, Spock felt the other inmates observing him from beyond the catwalk as he slowly restored order to the cell.

A voice spoke derisively. "Ain't privilege wonderful? _We_ didn't get off so damn easy when Cho paid _us_ a visit…"

Keeping a taut grip on his control, Spock looked across the way. "Easy?"

"He didn't have _you_ grabbing your ankles, did he? But maybe Cho saves that for when it's just the two of you. Nice and private like. Real cozy."

There was crude laughter.

Holding Leo's worn deck of cards, Spock turned aside. Cho must have been greatly distracted to overlook a strip search. Hatred for the warden flared hotter. It distressed him to think of Leo in Cho's domineering hands. Flipping through the cards, he renewed his determination to break Luna's corrupt system and free them from the hopeless misery of this environment.

oooo

"I'm sorry, Doctor Fielding. I wish the news were better."

Lauren glanced away from the phone screen to where the twins—helped by Simon—were stacking piles of blocks on the living room floor.

Teresa looked up at her with a hopeful smile. "That Daddy?"

"No," Simon answered impatiently. "It's Commander Carmichael—Father's lawyer."

Lauren returned her attention to Carmichael. "Alright, so Brandt's made it off the planet. We're sure of that much. Now how do we go about finding her?"

Carmichael was slow to answer. "You must understand, all we have on her is a parole violation. At this point anything else is pure conjecture."

She did not see the problem. "So bring her back for the violation. We can work on the rest when she gets here."

His eyes filled with regret. "Doctor," he said gently, "since she's no longer a member of Starfleet, we have no jurisdiction over the case. The Federation Police have a warrant for her arrest, but I'll be quite frank with you. It's a big galaxy out there. FedPol won't waste very much time or money tracking down some troubled girl who skipped out on her parole. If you could just give me something more than an unsubstantiated theory…"

"But you contacted Henson and Kona aboard the Enterprise. They both admit they knew her and spent time with her before they turned in their reports against Spock. So did the officer in the transporter room."

"And they all denied any mental contact with the girl."

Lauren huffed in frustration. "Do you really think they'd remember? If Brandt was smooth enough to plan this, she was certainly smooth enough to make them forget any melds."

Carmichael shifted in his chair. It was clear that she had lost him, and no wonder. This whole thing sounded like the plot of some cheap novel.

Finally he suggested, "You might try hiring a private detective."

Discouraged, Lauren leaned back and let out a slow breath. A private investigator? How much would that cost? How long would it take before she saw any results? How could she even be sure she was getting her money's worth?

She thanked the attorney and signed off. As she sat considering her options, an old adage came to mind. She could remember Grandmother Stemple saying it. _If you want something done right, do it yourself._ How true. Yet looking at her children, at the comfort and security of her home, she wavered. What would Spock want her to do? No. If their positions were reversed, what would _he_ do?

All at once the confusion cleared. Turning back to the phone, she put through a call to New York.

oooo

Spock was flat on his back, undergoing a medical examination, when a guard entered the infirmary with a summons from Warden Cho. He started to rise, but the doctor motioned for him to stay put.

"Just hold on a minute; he can wait until I'm through."

Doctor Madison was a rare glimmer of light in this murky prison colony. Somehow, amidst so much cruelty and indifference, he had maintained a measure of compassion.

Spock watched the medscanner slowly sweep the length of his exposed legs. He knew that his neurological condition had worsened. The storeroom assault, the prison scuffles, and the grueling work details had all taken their toll on his body.

Madison shut off the scanner and shook his head. "How do they expect me to help any of you, when they try their level best to screw it all up? I'm sending you down to the neuro-stimulator."

Spock looked at him, uncomprehending.

The doctor waved him off the table. "Go on, get dressed and see the warden. It may be a day or two before SMC can fit you in."

All at once the meaning registered. He was being sent _down—_ to Earth—to San Francisco! The idea consumed Spock as he put on his clothes and was led away. In his mind the dismal, confining walls faded into the polished splendor of Starfleet Medical Center. There would be fresh air and normal human activity. There would even be windows that offered a view of the outdoors…

Abruptly the daydream shattered as Spock pictured Leo somewhere alone in a dim, airless cell.

They arrived at the warden's office.

"Inside!" snapped the guard.

Spock limped up to Cho's desk. Cho gestured for the guard to leave them in privacy, then indicated the single chair facing him.

"Sit down," he said almost gently.

Regarding the warden with suspicion, Spock complied.

Cho gave him a cold smile. "There is a matter of importance I wish to discuss with you."

Spock waited in stiff silence as the warden's fan hummed.

"I understand that you've grown quite friendly with your cellmate. You must find this matter of the drugs very disturbing." Cho dabbed at his sweaty face with a handkerchief. "I have decided to proceed cautiously in this case. For now, Kessler has been charged only with possessing an unauthorized item. I might be inclined to leave it at that, if you prove helpful…"

"Helpful?"

Cho's tight-lipped smile stretched wider. "The men have had their little show of rebellion. Don't you think it's time they return to work?"

"That is their decision," Spock said, "not mine."

Cho did not blink. "How very humble of you, but we both know otherwise. It would be a very simple matter for you to call off the strike."

Spock savored the moment. It was gratifying to know how badly the warden needed him, but even had he been inclined to cooperate, such a thing was impossible. The strike may have been his idea, but it was Leo's gang that had set it into motion. And now, as was often the case with momentous ideas, it had grown larger than the both of them.

Cho's smile slowly faded. "I see you need time to think. Go back to your cell. We'll speak again tomorrow, after you have a good night's sleep."

oooo

Spock awoke after midnight from a stinging sensation on his upper arm. His arm jerked and something rattled to the floor.

"Freeze," a voice said.

He froze. There was a knife at his throat. The cold blade pinched into his skin, drawing a slow ooze of blood. Hot, odorous breath met his nostrils as he searched the darkness above him for the face of his assailant. Eyes glittered above a black swath of beard.

Spock's stomach turned with revulsion. "How did you get in here?"

Ronaldi grinned. "You've had some hard times lately. Now you're about to commit suicide. A slit of the wrists and…"

Spock had some difficulty understanding the words. A dangerous lethargy was stealing over him. The sting! A prick of a hypo? A sedative?

The convict's teeth glimmered as he spread his lips. "That's it now, just relax…"

oooo

A pair of guards marched Spock through the halls of the prison. His bloodied hands were cuffed behind his back, the guards' arms linked through his, hurrying him along on shaky legs as he fought the sedation's effects.

Jerking open Cho's office door, they threw him inside. Spock landed on his knees before the warden's desk. Cho did not look happy at being pulled from his sleep.

"Leave us!" he said.

The guards went out of the room. For a long moment Cho glared at Spock without saying anything. Then his voice cracked over him like a whip. "What kind of animal are you? There was a ventilation problem in Cellblock 1. I assigned an inmate to your cell for the night—one lousy night—and you try to kill him!"

Spock stared dazedly at the raving man. Stress was helping to clear his system, but slowly.

"On your feet!" Cho demanded.

Spock knew he could not rise without the help of his hands. He did not even try. Angered by the disobedience, Cho strode around the desk and slapped the side of his head. Spock's ear rang.

"You Vulcans think you're so superior, but I have news for you! You're never going to leave here, not after this! Assault with a deadly weapon! Another attempted murder! Tell me, where have you been hiding that knife?"

Spock met Cho's raging eyes with his own share of anger. "The knife wasn't mine, and you know it! And how did Ronaldi obtain that sedative?"

The warden's face went livid. Once more the hand lashed out and struck Spock. "Insolent! Do you think I'm playing here? It's a damn good thing you are on your knees! You had better pray to your Vulcan God that Ronaldi lives, and that I have pity on you—" Breaking off, he shook an accusing finger in Spock's face. "You weren't willing to work with me for your friend's sake. Now perhaps you'll do it to save yourself!"

Spock held his tongue and stared at the floor. At Cho's command, the guards came in and lifted him to his feet. He was hauled down a network of obscure hallways to a punishment cell, where his cuffs came off. They shoved him inside and a solid steel door closed on him.

He found himself in a bare, unlighted space just small enough to deny him the comfort of standing upright or fully extending his limbs. The floor was damp, and the air stank of urine and feces. There was a darkness so complete, even his Vulcan eyesight could not penetrate it.

His mind swam with disturbing images. There had been no reason for him to hurt Ronaldi so badly. Driven by rage, he had gone far beyond any simple need to defend himself. If the guards had not arrived when they did…

He turned his thoughts to Cho. The warden was a hellishly clever man, but he was operating under a false premise. It was not within Spock's power to end the strike, and he was glad. One might easily betray his fellow inmates in order to spare himself and his family the ordeal of a second trial, and added years of imprisonment. Now it was only a matter of time until he was back in court. Plead guilty, and he might never again see the light of day. Plead self-defense, and every sordid detail of his prison experience would be dredged up for the publicity mongers. Either way it seemed as if a door had closed, not only on him, but on his entire life.


	7. No Turning Back

**7: No Turning Back**

The heavy door scraped open.

Spock squinted in the wash of light that streamed into the tiny cell. A pair of guards dragged him out and muscled him upright.

"Cripes, this hole stinks!" one complained. "And will you look at the blood on him? What the hell did he do to himself?"

The older guard eyed the stains on Spock skin and clothing. "That's not his—it's _human._ Must've worked someone over pretty good."

Seizing Spock by the arm, he thrust him down the hall. Spock staggered, caught his balance, and limped along slowly ahead of the guards. His legs no longer gave him much pain; they felt leaden and unresponsive, as if the nerve pathways were shutting down. According to his timesense, it was now the afternoon of the second day. He had been locked in that cell without food or water for 35.7 hours.

They arrived at the main shower room. The older guard pushed him, fully clothed, beneath the running water.

"See?" he said to impress his less experienced partner. "That's how you deal with these scum. Just show them who's in charge." He raised his voice annoyingly. "Isn't that right, number M343B?"

Spock finished stripping off his clothes. Taking a bar of soap, he began to wash. He caught water in his mouth and drank thirstily.

"Don't remember me, do you?" the guard persisted. "But I sure as hell remember you. His Royal Highness, first officer of the starship Enterprise. Always going around with your Vulcan nose stuck in the air." He emitted a short laugh. "Well, you're not so freaking important now—are you?"

Spock did what he could to shut out the taunts from his awareness.

Abruptly the angered guard yanked him away from the water and snatched the soap out of his hand. "I'm talking to you, M343B! And when I talk, you better the hell pay attention!"

Spock glanced at the phaser holstered at the guard's side. _Encoded. Useless._

The guard drew the weapon and held it out to him. Snickering, he said, "Go ahead-take it! Make your move, big shot!"

The second guard shifted uneasily. "Come on, don't. There isn't time."

Deprived of his fun, Spock's tormentor threw the soap on the floor and walked away.

After showering, Spock was given clean garments. Instead of the usual gray stripes, the jumpsuit was orange—the color used for prisoners under transport. His pulse quickened as he stared at it.

"Move!" snapped the guard.

oooo

Accompanied by a pair of base sentries, Spock passed through the airy corridors of Starfleet Medical Center's security section. Many of the staff recognized him and stared openly at his untidy haircut and fluorescent jumpsuit, at the energy cuffs and leg restraints demanded by regulations. One nurse gave a wan smile and nodded a greeting.

Uncomfortable with all the attention, Spock acted as if he had not seen her and focused instead on his physical surroundings. It was as if he had emerged from a dark cavern into the light of day.

At the door of a hospital room, the guards courteously removed his restraints, and Spock entered the spacious realm that would be his for a few hours. The floor sparkled. The walls were so flawless and bright that he was tempted to reach out and brush them with his fingertips. His eyes moved on, settling hungrily on the huge panes of glass through which the afternoon sun was streaming.

"Hello, Mister Spock."

Dragging his eyes away, he turned toward the pleasant voice. It was the smiling nurse, accompanied by a sentry for her protection.

She handed him a pair of pajamas. "You can go ahead and put these on. The doctor will be with you shortly."

They left him, closing the door so that he could disrobe in privacy. After changing clothes, Spock went to the window and stood motionless in the sunshine, absorbing the magnificent view of San Francisco and the Bay. His eyes rose and beheld the sky—boundless blue, scattered clouds trailing mist, sea gulls in flight. He felt for the window control. There was a humming sound as the safety field engaged and a pane slid open. Cold, clean air rushed in.

The nurse appeared at his side and gently scolded him as she closed the window. "What are you doing? It's freezing out there."

Spock kept looking at the sky. As he watched, a cloud shifted, revealing a pale ghostly sliver of moon. Pained by the sight, he turned aside and found a guard now stationed beside the door.

Doctor M'Benga entered the room carrying a datapadd and offered a friendly greeting before sending Spock to the bed. M'Benga frowned as he ran his scanner and compared its readings with the information on Spock's chart. He said, "Your wife's been rightly concerned about your condition. I don't understand this at all. Your blood level of neuroplex should be considerably higher. Haven't you been taking your medication?"

"When it is given to me," Spock answered, wondering at the doctor's reference to Lauren. Had she arranged for today's treatment? Might he see her before he returned to Luna?

M'Benga's frown deepened and he glanced up. "You're supposed to be having 500 milligrams with every meal." He studied Spock's impassive face. "When did you last eat?"

Spock rapidly calculated. "Approximately forty-four-point-five hours ago."

 _"_ _What?"_ M'Benga exclaimed. He gave Spock another sweep of the scanner. "You're dehydrated, too. Have you been ill?"

Spock told him about his stay in the punishment cell, and M'Benga's lips pressed tightly together. It was the closest Spock had ever seen the good-natured doctor come to losing his temper. Wordlessly M'Benga strode out of the room. He returned with a neuroplex injection, a tray of food and drink, and a neuro-stimulator unit.

The hours passed all too quickly, and Lauren never appeared. After the treatment, Spock left the bed and donned his prisoner's clothing. The guards were about to restrain him when he asked for one last moment at the window. There was no guarantee that he would ever set foot on Earth again.

"Sure, go ahead," came the amiable response.

Once more Spock looked down at the city, thinking of his wife and children. And of Jim. Had the captain been sent home to convalesce? Jim's high-rise apartment complex was framed by the setting sun. Although Spock's own home was not visible from here, in his mind's eye he clearly saw it. _So very near!_

His shoulders sagged with sudden discouragement. In better times he had been known to say that there were always possibilities, but his current situation seemed utterly hopeless. Even if he not attacked Ronaldi, Cho would have found some other way to mar his record and deny him even the distant expectation of freedom. A twenty year sentence had been difficult to face, but now it seemed as nothing beside a lifetime of unrelieved imprisonment. Gazing out at the magnificent red sunset, his throat tightened.

"I'm sorry," the guard said, "but I'll have to cuff you now."

Mechanically Spock complied. But as the cuffs and shackles snapped into place, he made a decision. In the space of a heartbeat, his desolate outlook changed to one of determination. He _would_ come down to Earth again, perhaps by acting as if his condition had worsened. And next time he would have a plan of escape.

But what of Leo? There must be a way to include his friend.

As the sentries guided Spock to the security section's transporter, he took in every detail of his surroundings, locking the information away for future reference. He centered himself on the locus. There should have been a brief transport to Spacedock where the prison shuttle awaited them. Instead, they materialized in a building even more beautiful and ornate than the medical center. _A transporter error?_

Confused, Spock glanced around the lavish lobby of Starfleet Headquarters. A contingent of well-armed security officers stepped forward to receive him.

"This way," an officer said.

Spock rode with them on a turbolift that rose directly to an upper story. They walked down a hallway, through two doors, and entered Admiral Morrow's office. The admiral was seated at his desk. A woman rose from a nearby chair and met Spock's eyes. With a sharp mingling of joy and pain, Spock ventured toward his wife and received her embrace. Lauren's touch brought a conflicting muddle of impressions, but one thing was certain. She was extremely nervous.

Without saying a word, she retreated into the anteroom with the security escort. Spock found himself alone with the admiral.

Morrow lounged back in his chair and gazed at him through narrowed eyes. "Have a seat."

Working around his restraints, Spock lowered himself into the chair Lauren had vacated. The warmth left by her body enveloped him.

For a time Morrow sat silently, as if he did not quite know how to proceed, or would rather have said nothing at all. Finally he straightened. "This is difficult for me. Very difficult."

Spock did not find the situation particularly agreeable, either.

Morrow continued. "I don't know what story you told Doctor M'Benga this afternoon, but apparently he ran out and got hold of your wife—and now he's calling for an investigation into conditions at Luna." Sighing, he joined his hands before him on the desk. "I just got off the com with Jason Cho. I thought I'd have a friendly chat with him before this went any further." Pausing, he directed his attention to his computer monitor. "The warden had quite a bit to say about you."

"I am not surprised," Spock remarked.

Morrow studied the monitor a bit longer. "I see you're already acquiring quite a prison record for yourself. I can't believe all this. And Cho said there's another, even more serious incident under investigation—an incident that might well demand legal action."

"It is," Spock quietly concurred, "difficult to believe."

Morrow glanced up, clearly exasperated. "This isn't like you! Spock, what the hell has happened?"

"What has happened?" Spock repeated the admiral's query back to him. "Starfleet justice has found me guilty of attempted murder, and I have been integrated into the 'crown jewel' of Starfleet's correctional system. That is what happened."

Morrow's brows drew together. "It's not like you to be so cynical, either."

Spock adjusted his arms to relieve the energy cuffs' chafing. "Admiral, the Luna Correctional Facility is unfit to house livestock. Warden Cho and many of his staff use their power to abuse the inmates and garner gratuities for themselves. Surely a few complaints have slipped past Cho. I suggest you and your fellow admirals take the time to read them."

"All prisoners complain, Spock—but somehow I never thought you would."

Spock nodded in grim acceptance. Morrow's reaction did not really surprise him. "I must be a great disappointment to you."

"'Disappointment' doesn't even begin to describe it. I thought you would serve your sentence with some kind of dignity. But no, the warden tells me you've been stirring up the inmates—that, in fact, you're the guiding force behind the work stoppage at the mines." Morrow's dark gaze probed him. "Is that true?"

Spock was silent.

Morrow gave up trying to hide his anger. "Dammit, I'm warning you! Get those prisoners back to work or…"

"Or?" Spock raised an eyebrow. "Or I should think the embarrassment to Starfleet will be extreme. Imagine the adverse publicity when you are forced to close down the rotting Luna facility and move the prisoners to a more humane environment."

Morrow exploded. "A country club for cutthroats? Is that what you want? Well, I have news for you, Mister! That prison uniform you're wearing doesn't pull any weight around here! It'll be a cold day in hell when murderers and rabble-rousers start dictating Starfleet policy!" His hand reached for the intercom. "One minute with your wife, then you're through."

Spock rose as Lauren entered the room.

Her hopeful eyes moved from Spock to Morrow. "Well?"

The glowering admiral went to a window and stared out at the twilight, hands clasped behind his rigid back.

"He will not listen," Spock told her.

Turning to him, she sadly touched his face. _Once more, that sense of tension._

Reaching up, she kissed him on the lips. He had almost forgotten how soft they felt. The subtle fragrance of her perfume drifted on the air. Realizing that they might never be this close again, his heart ached.

"Trust me," she whispered.

He did not understand.

Then Lauren stepped away and drew a phaser from inside her uniform jacket.

Spock's eyes widened. Instinctively, his wrists strained at the cuffs that prevented him from stopping her. "Lauren, no!" he said urgently.

Morrow glanced their way. At the sight of the phaser his jaw dropped.

Using both hands, Lauren targeted him and warned, "Stay right where you are. You wouldn't listen. You wouldn't pay attention to any of us. Now we're going to do it my way."

 _"_ _No,"_ Spock said emphatically. "This is _not_ the way. Lauren, put the phaser down."

Her fingers tightened over the weapon. Her eyes stayed on Morrow.

"She is not herself," Spock told the admiral. "The strain—"

"Oh, I'm just fine and dandy," she declared. With her free hand she reached into her jacket and pulled out a communicator.

Spock fell silent. So this was not some desperate, ill-conceived act. She had a plan—of course. Lauren always planned everything carefully, but this time she was making a grievous error.

"Think of what you're doing," Morrow said.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," she retorted. "In a couple of seconds the two of us are going to beam right out of here. Now, I could use this phaser on you, but we both know it would set off every alarm in the building. So we'll just go out real quiet, and maybe for old times' sake you'll give us a minute or two before you call out your cops."

"You know I can't do that," Morrow responded.

"Lauren—" Spock began once more to reason with her, but got no further.

She spoke into the communicator, and they were gone.

Alone, Morrow tapped his combadge—and unaccountably hesitated. The force of his indecision took him by surprise. Could it be that deep down inside he actually believed Spock might be innocent? It was a long moment before he could bring himself to speak.

"Security! Prisoner escaped!"

oooo

Even as Spock materialized beside his wife, he was aware of an impulse engine engaging. Clearly they were aboard a space vessel, and it was quite small. He turned the full force of his displeasure upon Lauren. "What have you done? The children—your career—our home!"

Eyes brimming with angry tears, she tucked away her phaser. "Without you there is no home! Can't you see that?"

Fuming, she strode off the little transporter platform. Confined by his leg shackles, Spock followed her off slowly and glanced about the room. The little transporter console was unattended; apparently the controls had been operated from some other area. His eyes found a logo above the door. _Sanger Shipping._ He abruptly realized that they were aboard a ship owned by Lauren's mother, and a still more troubling thought occurred to him.

"Are the children here?"

"Of course not," she retorted. "They're safe in Manhattan, with Mother."

That offered some small relief. "You do realize that in order to avoid suspicion we will have to escape the solar system before engaging warp speed?"

"Yes, dear—I know."

"Lauren, we never discussed this. Do you have any idea of the consequences? You have just committed a felony."

She thrust a finger toward the transporter platform. "Do you want to go back—is that it? Go on, there's still time!"

For a moment he looked into her flaming blue eyes and seriously considered it. But at last he said, "No."

oooo

Freed of his restraints, Spock stood at the viewport in the ship's lounge. He watched as they cleared the outer rim of the solar system. Abruptly the stars shifted and blurred into warp space.

He had not expected them to make it even this far. But then, he had not expected any of this. Turning, he sat down in a plush chair opposite Lauren. Any Vulcan would experience a deep-seated need to protect his bondmate and his children. In prison, he had been helpless to do so, and now Lauren had thrust them into a situation that was harmful to them all.

"Talk to me," she said.

He hardly knew how to express his frustration.

"Would you have cared if Jim got you out of that miserable excuse for a prison? I think not. But it was me—a mere female—your own _wife."_

He shook his head. "Our conversations had barely touched on some future possibility of escape, and even then you were never to be involved."

"Twenty years." Lauren's voice pleaded with him to understand. "Spock, I saw what that place was like. I couldn't leave you there, any more than you could have left me."

"Now our children have not only lost their father—they have lost their mother, as well."

Her tears welled, crying out for a tender response from him. "I know. Believe me, I know. But someday we'll all be together again. _Trust_ me."

Annoyed, he said, "You _know_ nothing of the future. You only _imagine._ To act only upon one's imagination is irrational."

"Is love irrational, too? What a silly question. Of course it is."

Spock withheld comment. The concept of love could not be addressed by logic, but its power was nonetheless real. He had experienced it in his own life; even at this very moment, as he mourned his family's ruined prospects.

Quietly he asked, "Where are we bound?"

"The Antares system, with a shipment of pharmaceuticals. From there we'll have to make our own way. I have some forged I.D. chips."

"Flimsy. Inadequate. There will be retina scans."

"We'll avoid them," she said. "We'll be careful."

"We'll be apprehended. First, they will check all the places where we might be expected to seek refuge. Sydok, Gamma Vertas IV, and even Vulcan. Once they learn from Commander Carmichael that we are searching for T'Naisa Brandt, Starfleet will concentrate a great effort to locate her and..."

"Exactly!" Lauren left her chair and sank onto her knees beside him. "We want them to find her. Once she's in jail, we can turn ourselves in. Carmichael will help get this whole mess straightened out."

There was some logic in that. "But if Starfleet finds us first?" he questioned.

"They won't."

Spock's eyebrow climbed. "On what do you base that conclusion?"

"On the fact that we'll have an extremely intelligent, resourceful guide. _You."_

Was she attempting to win him over with flattery? Or did she actually believe he had the ability to evade a full scale Starfleet manhunt while attempting to carry out a search of his own? He told her, "You sound very sure of the outcome. What if it turns out that T'Naisa Brandt was not even involved? At most, we have only a theory."

"But a sound theory," Lauren insisted. "T'Naisa _has_ to be the one!"

"There is no guarantee of that. Meanwhile, you have committed a serious crime. I cannot believe that your mother actively assisted you."

She gave him a wan smile. "She's a Stemple, like me. And like you, too," she added, referring to their common strain of human ancestry. "We put our necks on the line for what we believe in. And Spock, she's always believed in you." The corners of her mouth lifted a bit more. "She thinks you're the best thing to come along since warp drive."

 _More flattery?_ "Lauren," he said, "it is one thing to lay down your own life, but your actions will adversely affect the lives of our children."

She took his hand. "Spock, I know you have a strong opinion about this—especially because of T'Beth. You swore you'd never abandon another child. But this isn't the same. I did this for their sake, as much as our own. Meanwhile, they'll be fine with Mother. I set her up with a specialist for James, and she knows a violinist who can tutor Simon."

It was true; Spock could not help but think of T'Beth's early years apart from him. He knew from painful experience what could happen if a child's emotional needs were not met by a parent. Now he warned Lauren, "They will not understand."

"Do you think they understood it before? Spock, Simon was starting to believe you were guilty, and the twins didn't even know you from your lawyer!"

She touched her fingertips to his face, then stood up. "I brought you some clothes. Come on back to the cabin and change out of those prison rags."

oooo

Lauren awoke to the soothing thrum of a warp drive engine. Eyes still closed, she rolled over in bed. Her hand sought out the space beside her. _Empty._

Abruptly she sat up and looked at the shadowy corner of the cabin where Spock had been meditating when she lay down. He was nowhere in sight. Throwing back the covers, she put on a robe and ventured barefoot down the courtesy-lit corridor. Triggering open the lounge door, she peered in.

Spock turned from the observation window. Light from the corridor cut across his brown flannel shirt and accentuated the somber lines of his face. Entering, Lauren adjusted the interior illumination to a soft, relaxing level.

"You must be tired," she said. "Come and sleep."

He shook his head and turned back to the stars.

Lauren loosed a sigh. "You're still angry with me."

Spock took a moment to respond. "It would be so much better if you were not involved, but now that you have set us on this course, there's no turning back."

She went to the window and stood beside him until he finally looked her way. Hungry for his touch, she reached for his hand, but he drew away from her. The rejection hurt badly. How long was he going to keep this up? With each passing hour it was becoming increasingly evident that he really did not want to be touched by her—physically or mentally. Is that why he had not come to bed?

"You _are_ angry," she insisted. "You think I should have stayed home with the children and left you to rot."

Spock drew in slow breath. "That is not at all what I am thinking."

Lauren waited for him to say more, but he stared out at the stars in maddening silence. Finally her patience snapped. "Then tell me! _Tell_ me what's on your mind."

His dark, unfathomable eyes found her. "Very well," he said at last. "I was thinking of prison."

The words came as a relief. She had been expecting yet another reproach for her "ill-conceived escapade", and told him feelingly, "That place was horrible."

"Yes." His gaze shifted back to the window. "It may be some time before I am ready to reveal everything that happened there."

Lauren placed her fingers on his arm, and though he did not move away, it was like handling a statue. Whatever was troubling him, ran very deep.

"That's alright," she said, as much for her own benefit as his. For suddenly she was so frightened that she reached out and embraced him tightly, hoping against hope for a normal response.

For a moment his arms remained rigidly at his sides. In slow motion he raised them and touched her back ever so lightly. Was that all? Was that all he could give? But then, to her relief, he opened just enough to say, "I left a friend behind…"

oooOooo


End file.
